, 


MAIN    9oe< 


U: 


SNATCHES  OF  SONG 


WITH  VERSES  OF  LIGHTER  AND 
MORE  SOBER  MOODS 


BY 

WILLIAM  ANDREW  SPALDING 

Author  of 

My  Vagabonds; 
The  Orange :    Its  Culture  in  California 


SOUVENIR  EDITION 


Copyrighted.  1921, 

by 

William  Andrew  Spalding 
All  rights  reserved 


(Eo  tfje  Witt 

imti)  Uii)oin  nn>  pearfi  are 
ftoe-anb-fortp 


49  i  5) 


INDEX 

i 

SONGS  Page 

Aeroplane,  Song  of  the 48 

As  Night  Awaits  Upon  Morning 27 

Canyon  Wren,  The 16 

Creel  Club  Song 26 

English  Sparrow,  To  an 18 

Flier  Flies,  The 25 

Florence,  With  the  Laughing  Eyes 28 

Girl  With  a  Pillow,  The 29 

Hoover,  Heaver,  Hoover 31 

I  Said  to  My  Verse 11 

It's  Going  to  Rain 44 

Larry  O'Lane 38 

Little  Swallow,  Flitting 21 

McShaughnessy,  Mrs 34 

Mocking  Bird,  The 15 

Mourning  Dove,  The 20 

My  Sunset  Land ;  .^i  .*  .  33 

Oh,  Cheer  Up 19 

Ostrich,  To  the 17 

Our  Lady 46 

Peacock,  To  the 43 

Sinn  Fein 36 

Snake,  He  Make 43 

Spattered  Pane  of  Glass,  A 40 

To  a  Very  Large  Man 35 

Uncle  Peter '. 41 

Yacht  Royal,  Song  of  the    .  42 


INDEX— Continued 
II 

FOR  CHILDREN  AND  GROWN-UPS 

Page 

Dorothy  Dix 55 

Her  Alphabet 53 

Hip-e-ty-Hop 73 

Johnny  Sees  the  Circus 77-86 

Lure  of  the  Hydrant 67 

Operetta,  An 57 

Shooing  Out  the  Hens 60 

Time  o'  Day,  The 66 

To  Barbara 54 

Wonderful  Little  Italian  Man,  A  62 

III 
IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

Ah  Get  and  You  Bet 91 

Ahkoond  of  Swat,  The 95 

Allegorical  Ditty,  An 96 

Barmecidal  Feast,  A 98 

Chinese  Wedlock 105 

Christmas  Jinks,  At  a 1 00 

Enigma 102 

Fair  Idyl,  A 103 

Flowing  Bowl,  My 100 

La  Grippe 1 07 

Lines  to  Major  E.  W 106 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  Walter 110 

Premeditated  Poverty 108 


INDEX— Continued 

Page 

Quips  and  Epigrams Ill 

Reform,  A  Ballad ,  118 

Smith's  Profiteering 

Sophist's  Maxim,  The 116 

ToF.A.G..                        , 101 

ToF.  W.  W ... 101 

Wonderful  Diplomat,  The 117 

IV 

IN  SOBER  VERSE 

After-Glow,  The 1 73 

Azracl.0 160 

Bard's  Appeal,  The 126 

Black  Star,  The ....  180 

Drouth,  The .,••••.•• 132 

Dying  Orange  Tree,  The 1 30 

Five-and-Forty,  The  Years  Are 1 52 

For  a  Summer's  Cruise 167 

German  "U",  The 146 

Hesperides,  The 1 23 

Hundred  Years  Ago,  A 1 76 

If  Love  Were  But  a  Holiday 1 58 

I  Mind  a  Little  House f 154 

InEvilBrass 134 

In  Memoriam 137 

In  Memory  of  a  Friend •  1 64 

Ingersoll 1 36 

Legend  of  the  East,  A .'. 157 

LittleBird.A 156 

Little  Messenger  of  Love  and  Death 1 38 

Load  of  Wood,  A..                                           139 


INDEX— Continued 

Page 

Maida,To 162 

Mary  to  Dode 131 

Moving  Pictures  on  the  Great  White  Way 189 

Newsboy,  The 1 24 

Our  Baby  Still..                                              155 

Our  Riddle 168 

Pasadena 1 45 

Philippine  War,  On  the 142 

Pillow-Fight,  A 127 

Pomona 141 

Senate,  To  the 129 

Sierra  Pine,  To  a 149 

Some  Day 215 

Two  Soldiers 174 

Upon  the  Eldest  of  Our  Little  Band 159 

Whence  Cometh  Thought? 151 

When  the  Grim  Reaper  Comes 1 73 

Whither  Away  ? 169 

Why  Sing  of  Love  to  Thee? 153 


I  SAID  TO  MY  VERSE 

Oh,  little  Verse, 
I  did  complain, 

How  sets  thy  course, 
Child  of  my  brain? 

I  fear  the  jaunt 

That's  just  begun, 
Ends  just  beyond; — 

In  oblivion. 

Then  saith  my  Verse, 

In  fancy  free, 
Think  of  thyself, 

And  not  of  me. 

For  ihou  art  mortal; 

I  am  thought; 
I  am  remembered; — 

Thou  'rt  forgot. 


SONGS 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

To  the  topmost  branch  of  my  cedar  tree 
Comes  a  Mocking-bird  and  sings  to  me, 
And  he  sways  and  swings  and  pipes  with  glee, 
On  the  topmost  twig  of  my  cedar  tree. 

He  comes  at  night,  does  my  piper  gay, 
When  sounds  are  muffled  and  far  away, 
When  the  air  is  still  and  the  earth  is  grey, — 
He  comes  at  night,  does  my  piper  gay. 

So  full  of  music,  so  full  of  mirth, 

He  mocks  the  meaner  things  of  earth, 

And  sound  itself  has  another  birth, 

And  is  filled  with  music  and  filled  with  mirth. 

To  the  raucous  cry  of  the  barnyard  fowl — 
To  the  wail  of  the  cat,  to  the  hoot  of  the  owl,- 
To  all  that  hide  and  skulk  and  prowl — 
A  musical  quip  for  their  screech  and  howl! 

On  the  topmost  branch  of  my  cedar  tree 
He  swings  in  the  night  and  sings  to  me; 
He  mocks  the  meaner  things  of  earth, 
And  my  soul  itself  has  another  birth. 


15 


THE  CANYON  WREN 

Trim  little,  pert  little  warbler, 

Far  on  the  mountain  height, 
Taking  his  daily  lesson, 

Singing  with  all  his  might, — 
Do, 
Si, 
La, 

Sol, 
Think  y°u  I  do  it  right? 

Yes,  little  flitting  singer, 

Up  in  the  big  pine  tree, 
Partly  your  notes  are  warbled 
True  as  true  can  be; — 
Do, 
Si, 
La, 

Sol,- 
Then  you  astonish  me. 

Bright  little,  brisk  little  pupil 

Singing  above  the  trail, 
Why  should  you  try  so  aptly, 
Why  should  you  try  and  fail? 
Do, 
Si, 
La, 

Sol, 
Do  not  complete  the  scale. 


16 


Then  sang  a  wren  from  the  canyon, 

(Sweetest  that  ever  I  heard) 
And  the  notes  were  rippling  laughter 
At  critic  so  absurd; — 
Do, 
Si, 
La, 

Sol. 
Four  are  enough  for  a  bird. 


TO  THE  OSTRICH 

Thou  freak  uncouth,  with  supercilious  air, — 
A  beast  with  plumage  and  a  bird  with  hair, — 
To  class  thee  with  thy  kind  I  do  despair, 

For  all  analogies  so  strangely  fail; 
Folly  of  all  the  beasts  and  birds  assumed 
In  one  huge  carcass,  billed  and  toed  and  plumed, 
The  fads  of  Fashion  thou  hast  well  disclosed, 
To  skimp  thy  legs,  (indecently  exposed), 

And  over-decorate  thy  useless  wings  and  tail, 


17 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  SPARROW 

My  sturdy  little  Britisher, 

Late  comer  to  our  city, 
That  you're  an  uncongenial  guest 

Is  something  of  a  pity. 

I  like  you  for  your  pep  and  go, 

I  like  you  for  your  daring; 
But  I  am  told  with  other  birds 

You're  somewhat  overbearing. 

Industrious  and  quarrelsome, 

111  natured  at  your  leisure, 
You  whip  another  bird,  'tis  said, 

That's  more  than  twice  your  measure. 

So,  while  your  multiplying  tribe 

Seems  destined  to  endure, 
The  others  of  our  whilom  guests 

Are  growing  few  and  fewer. 

I  much  regret,  my  British  friend, 
While  you  are  bolder,  wiser, 

Your  real  merits  fail  to  shine 
As  such  a  colonizer. 

So  I  commit  thee,  here  and  now, — 
In  durance  vile  thou  sittest — 

For  trial  under  martial  law; — 
Survival  of  the  Fittest. 


18 


OH,  CHEER  UP! 

A  poor  little  bird  sat  on  a  limb, 

Singing:     Chirrup,  cheer  up,  chirrup, 

And  nobody  took  any  thought  of  him, 
Singing:     Chirrup, 

But  whether  his  singing  was  right  or  wrong, 

He  sang  from  an  innate  love  of  song, 

And  he  perked  and  twittered  the  whole  day  long, 
Singing:     Chirrup. 

'Twas  a  poor  little  bird  with  a  plain  little  way, 

Singing:     Chirrup,  cheer  up,  chirrup, 
And  simple  indeed  was  his  roundelay, 

Singing:     Chirrup, 

But  he  bent  his  will  to  the  singing  o't, 
As  he  swelled  and  quavered  his  little  throat, 
And  poured  out  his  soul  with  every  note, 
Singing:     Chirrup. 

A  sad  little  maiden  happened  near 

Chirrup,  cheer  up,  chirrup, 
Wiping  away  a  briny  tear, 

Chirrup. 

And  she  heard  the  song  of  the  little  bird, 
And  it  warmed  her  heart  with  its  cheery  word: 
'  Tis  the  sweetest  song  that  ever  I've  heard, 

This  Cheer  up." 


19 


A  passing  lad  was  grumpy  and  blue, 

Chirrup,  cheer  up,  chirrup, 
And  he  didn't  know  just  what  to  do; 

Cheer  up. 

But  his  gloomy  mood  did  the  song  beguile, 
And  he  staid  his  step  to  listen  a  while; — 
He  saw  the  maid  and  caught  her  smile, 

Oh,  cheer  up. 

And  now  I  can't  begin  to  say 

Chirrup,  cheer  up,  chirrup, 
How  happy  they  were  as  they  walked  away, 

Oh,  cheer  up, 

But  the  little  bird  sat  on  the  self-same  tree, 
The  happiest  one  of  all  the  three, 
As  a  dear  little  peace-maker  ought  to  be, 

Singing:    Chirrup,  cheer  up,  chirrup. 


THE  MOURNING  DOVE 

When  the  benign  Creator  sent  his  birds 

To  cheer  Man's  rugged  pathway  and  sojourn  with  him, 
Giving  them  songs  with  meanings  more  than  words, 
To  match  his  joy,  his  hope,  his  toil,  his  love, 
Then  also  came  the  dove, 

To  mourn  with  him. 


20 


LITTLE  SWALLOW,  FLITTING 

Little  Swallow,  flitting 

To  and  fro, 
Innocent,  unwitting 

Aught  of  woe, 

Could  I  be  as  light  of  heart  and  free, 
Would  I  were  a  swallow  too,  with  thee, 
Flitting, 

Flitting, 

Flitting  to  and  fro, 
Innocent,  unwitting  aught  of  woe. 

Mud-daubed  nest  dependent 

From  the  wall, 
Where  the  sun  resplendent 

Makes  his  call; 

Man  might  imitate  thy  simple  art, 
Letting  sunshine  into  home  and  heart; 
Humble, 

Happy, 

Pattern  for  us  all — 
Mud-daubed  nest  dependent  from  the  wall. 

Sober  coat  and  homely, 

Brown  and  white, — 
Other  birds  more  comely 

To  the  sight; 

For  thy  garb  I  prize  thee  not  the  less;    . 
Birds  nor  men  are  better  for  their  dress. 
Plain, 

Or  gay, 

Unchanged  is  thy  delight, 
Sober  coat  and  homely— brown  and  white. 

21 


Lowly  is  thy  station, 

Daubing  clay, 
Artisan  and  mason 

In  a  way, 

Pattern  still  of  industry  and  thrift; — 
Fortune  favors  those  who  earn  her  gift. 
Toiling, 

Delving, 

Through  the  livelong  day;- 
Lowly  is  thy  station,  daubing  clay. 

Sweeter  song  and  fitter 

Other's  note; 
Thine  a  simple  twitter 
From  the  throat. 

Envy  thou  the  fulsome,  merry  song, 
While  thy  plaintive  note  thou  dost  prolong? 
Peace, 

Content, 

Ambitionless  thy  lot, — 
Thine  a  simple  twitter; — envy  not! 

Every  want  provided, 

Frugal  care! 
Duties  all  divided 
By  the  pair; 

Sharing  each  in  turn  the  toil  and  rest, 
Side  by  side  at  night  upon  the  nest; — 
Love 

And  labor, — 

Equal  joy  and  care — 
Duties  all  divided  by  the  pair! 

22 


Slight  thy  wealth  and  pleasure 

Seems  at  best; 
Five  small  eggs  thy  treasure 

In  the  nest. 

Skimming  swiftly  through  the  upper  air, 
Such  thy  recreation,  past  compare. 
Wealth 

And  joy! 

Oh,  swallow,  truly  blest! 
Five  small  eggs  thy  treasure  in  the  nest. 

Careless  of  the  morrow 

Evermore, 
Know'st  thou  what  a  sorrow 

Is  in  store? 

Ruthless  hands  this  evil  day  will  come 
Making  desolate  thy  happy  home; — 
Ruined, 

Desolate,— 

A  home  no  more; 
Know'st  thou  what  a  sorrow  is  in  store? 

Nest  all  torn  and  tattered, 

Ruin  done; 
Five  small  eggs  all  shattered, 

Every  one! 

Will  the  heart  within  thee  fail  at  last, 
Looking  at  the  ruin  of  the  past? 
Cheerless, 

Homeless, 

Hopelessly  undone; — 
Five  small  eggs  all  shattered,  every  one! 

23 


Scarcely  worth  regretting 

Mischief  done; 
Ere  the  sun's  next  setting 

Work  begun: 

Soon  another  nest  with  precious  store, — 
Other  five  within  it  as  before. 
Brave, 

Undaunted, 

Noble  little  one! 
Ere  the  sun's  next  setting  work  begun. 

Now  in  joy  unceasing 

And  in  peace, 
May  thy  tribe  increasing 

Still  increase! 

And  thy  humble  home  aye  happy  be, 
From  the  spoiler's  hand  forever  free. 
Careless, 

Busy, 

Living  aye  in  peace, 
May  thy  tribe  increasing,  still  increase! 

Little  Swallow,  flitting 

To  and  fro, 
Innocent,  unwitting 

Aught  of  woe, 

Could  I  be  as  light  of  heart  and  free, 
Would  I  were  a  swallow,  too,  with  thee, 
Flitting, 

Flitting, 

Flitting  to  and  fro, 
Innocent,  unwitting  aught  of  woe! 

24 


THE  FLYER  FLIES 

The  Flyer  flies 

Like  bird  a-wing, 
And,  like  the  lark, 

Flies  caroling. 

The  flyer  flies 

From  farthest  west, 
And,  like  the  thrush, 

Flies  from  his  nest. 

Like  bird  of  passage, 
Wild  and  f reei- 
Like  water-fowl, 

From  sea  to  sea; 

And  when  he  finds 
Atlantic's  tide, 

He'll  wheel  and  turn, 
And  sail  and  glide; 

He'll  wheel  and  turn, 
Like  carrier-dove, 

And  seek  the  cote 

That  holds  his  love. 

He'll  skim  the  earth, 
He'll  cleave  the  sky, 

And,  like  the  swan, 
He'll  sing  and  die. 


CREEL  CLUB  SONG 
Here's  a  song  to  our  mountain  sport,  boys; 

Here's  a  toast  to  the  rod  and  reel; 
We  have  stolen  away  for  a  week  and  a  day, 

And  we're  whooping  it  up  at  the  Creel. 
Good-bye  to  all  worry  and  strife,  boys, 

Good-bye  to  the  office  and  den; 
Pass  the  flagon  along  and  join  in  a  song 

To  the  little  log  house  in  the  glen. 

Creel,  creel,  crickety-creel, 
Nothing  to  worry  about. 

Up  and  away  at  peep  o'  day, 

And  back  with  a  creel  full  of  trout. 

The  river  runs  brawling  below,  boys, 

And  the  fish  are  a  hungry  set; 
We'll  go  down  by  and  by  and  drop  them  a  fly, 

And  take  them  in  out  of  the  wet. 
It's  a  pleasure  to  wade  in  the  stream,  boys, 

And  tramping's  the  angler's  delight; 
Our  trousers  all  damp,  we  will  come  back  to  camp 

With  a  cannibal's  appetite. 

And  then,  when  the  table  is  spread,  boys, 

We  rally  about  with  a  will, 
And  every  man  Jack  has  a  load  to  pack, 

When  he  waddles  away  from  the  grill. 
And  then  come  the  pipes  and  tobac',  boys, — 

And  maybe  a  bottle  or  two, 
And  the  stories  we  tell — they  just  beat — well, 

Singing  tooral-ti-looral  to  Lou. 
26 


AS  NIGHT  AWAITS  UPON  MORNING 

As  Night  awaits  upon  Morning, 

And  welcomes  the  dawn  of  Day; 

As  the  somnolent  earth  reviving 

Responds  to  the  showers  of  May; 

As  Winter  rolls  his  blankets, 

And  ties  them  up  with  a  string, 

When  he  catches  a  whiff  of  the  blossoms 
That  herald  the  coming  Spring; 

As  sorrow  reacts  in  gladness, 
And  surcease  follows  pain; 

As  an  old  man  turns  to  a  young  man 
For  the  frolic  of  living  again; 

So,  boy,  I  send  a  greeting 

To  your  birthday  from  mine : 

May  the  light  and  hope  of  the  Morning, 
And  the  joy  of  Spring  be  thine. 


27 


FLORENCE,  WITH  THE  LAUGHING  EYES 

Florence,  with  the  laughing  eyes, 
I  am  in  a  dark  brown  study; 

Mystery  of  mysteries! 

(It  would  puzzle  anybody — 

Even  Prophet  or  Mahatma) 

Whether  you  are  laughing  with, 

Or  laughing  at  me. 

Florence,  with  the  dancing  eyes, 
'Tis  the  very  joy  of  being; — 

(Eyes  were  made  for  courtesies, 

Not  the  less  than  made  for  seeing,) 

But,  dear  Florence,  won't  you  tell,  oh, 
Whether  they're  to  dance  with  me, 

Or  't'other  fellow? 

Florence,  with  the  liquid  eyes, 

Sweeter  far  than  mountain  daisies, 

Surely  where  such  frolic  lies 

There  are  also  tender  phases. 

So,  dear  Florence,  will  you  duly 
Keep  some  tenderness  in  store 

For  yours  truly? 

Florence,  with  the  glorious  eyes, 

Laughing,  dancing,  sighing,  weeping, 

Here's  my  heart  in  either- wise, 
Always  surely  in  your  keeping; 

For  my  fond  devotion's  due  you, 
And,  dear  Florence,  let  me  be 

— A  brother  to  you. 

28 


THE  GIRL  WITH  A  PILLOW 

Two  maidens  were  sitting  one  summer  day 

In  the  shade  of  a  spreading  willow, 
And  one  was  making  a  shift  for  herself, 

The  other  a  shift  for  a  pillow. 

The  bright  needles  flew  over  and  through, 

The  thread  went  gliding  after. 
And  the  maidens  beguile  their  time  the  while 

With  merriment  and  laughter. 

But  alack  for  the  hands,  and  alas  for  the  heads 

That  ply  their  art  so  bewitching. 
They  are  running  amain  on  another  train 

And  playing  the  deuce  with  their  stitching. 

"There,  I  vum,"  says  the  girl  with  the  nameless  attire, 
"I  have  broken  my  needle,  the  torment! 

Some  fortunate  end  will  surely  attend; 

There's  good  luck  in  store  for  this  garment ; 

"It's  a  sign  all  agree,  true  as  ever  can  be, 

That  you're  sure  of  catching  your  fellow; 

I'm  to  wed  in  a  year."     "We  shall  see,  my  dear." 
Replies  the  girl  with  the  pillow. 

So  the  bright  needles  flew  over  and  through, 

And  the  thread  went  after  skipping; 
But  that  on  the  pillow-shift  making  its  seam 

Kept  snarling  and  catching  and  tripping. 


29 


"Oh,  Sue,  I'm  afraid  you  must  die  an  old  maid, 

For  it  seems  by  the  fates  so  allotted; 
Just  look  at  your  thread,  dear,  just  look  at  your  thread, 

And  see  how  it's  tangled  and  knotted." 

But  the  girl  with  the  thread  all  tangled  and  snarled 
Says:     "There  may  be  a  hope  for  me  still,  oh, 

In  time,  never  fear,  we  shall  see,  my  dear." 
And  worked  away  at  her  pillow. 


Now  a  year  has  gone  by,  and  the  world  tonight 

Still  tosses  on  Time's  fitful  billow, 
And  I'll  wager  my  bed  that  a  husband's  head 

Is  at  rest  on  one-half  of  that  pillow; 

While  the  maiden  that  stitched  on  the  nameless  attire, 
To  whom  the  promising  charm  went, 

Is  in  maidenly  sleep  on  her  maidenly  couch, 
Wrapped  in  her  maidenly  garment. 

So  the  one  who  divines  by  symbols  and  signs 
Never  knows  what  fortune  may  will,  oh, 

For  better  or  worse,  most  omens  reverse, 
As  they  did  with  the  girl  and  her  pillow. 


30 


HOOVER,  HEAVER,  HOOVER 

All  Gaul  it  was  divided 

When  Caesar  saw  and  came; 
And  it  gave  the  many-sided 

Roman  general  his  fame; — 
The  Belgae  on  the  northward. 

The  Franks  upon  the  west, 
The  Germans  in  the  middle, 
And  wanting  all  the  rest. 

All  Gaul  took  what  he  gave  her, 
With  his  Romanesque  behaviour; — 
Saltpeter  couldn't  save  her 

When  Caesar  saw  and  came. 

All  Gaul  was  whipped  and  humbled 

When  Caesar  saw  and  came; 
And  of  late  the  Hun  he  tumbled 

To  Caesar's  little  game; 
So  he  moved  upon  the  Belgae, 

But  the  Franks  upon  the  west 
Were  the  ones  marked  out  for  conquest, — 
The  objects  of  his  quest. 

But  the  Belgae  didn't  waver, — 
They  fought  for  France,  to  save  her, 
And  died  without  a  quaver, 

When  the  ruthless  Germans  came. 

Oh,  Britain  was  an  island 

When  Caesar  saw  and  came; — 
A  rugged  bit  of  highland, — 

A  race  without  a  name; 

31 


But  a  mighty  change  was  strident 

With  the  march  of  centuries; — 
Now  Britain  holds  the  trident, 
And  is  mistress  of  the  seas. 

And  Britain,  a  good  neighbor, 
Beholding  France  at  labor, 
Got  out  her  gun  and  saber, 
And  mingled  in  the  game. 

America  was  nowhere 

When  Caesar  saw  and  came; 
And  Caesar  couldn't  find  her 
For  conquest  or  for  fame; 
But  Uncle  Sam's  now  husky 

For  such  a  youthful  chap, 
And  has  gained  some  scraps  of  knowledge, 
And  a  place  upon  the  map. 
And  Uncle  Sam  went  over, 
With  Pershing  and  with  Hoover, 
As  correcter  and  improver, 

To  make  the  Germans  tame. 

And  with  Pershing 
Rehearsing 

And  snicker-snees  a-carving, 
And  Hoover's 
Manoeuvers 

For  all  the  wrecked  and  starving, 
We  put  a  little  bee 
In  the  Hun's  sagacity, 
Till  Fritz  just  had  to  see, 

And  he  got  the  lesson  that  he  was  deserving. 

32 


Oh,  Heaver,  oh,  Hoover, 
The  saver  and  improver, 
Who  helped  to  put  it  over, 
This  Hoover,  Heaver,  Hoover, 
No  longer  is  a  rover; — 
Let's  put  him  now  in  clover, 
This  Hoover,  Heaver,  Hoover. 


MY  SUNSET  LAND 

Beyond  the  desert's  fiery  breath, 

Beyond  its  dreary  waste  of  sand, 

Beyond  its  toil  and  pain  and  death, 
There  is  my  glorious  Sunset  Land. 

There  do  the  living  waters  flow, 

There  sing  the  birds  in  sweet  attune; 

There  do  the  flowers  in  winter  blow, 
There  it  seems  always  afternoon. 

Abide  with  me  in  that  sunset  land; 

Come,  dearest  one,  and  abide  with  me, 
And  Heaven  shall  then  be  close  at  hand, 

And  time  shall  but  merge  in  eternity. 


33 


MRS.  Me  SHAUGHNESSY 

If  ye  sthep  tro'  th'  door  ye're  as  wilcome  as  iver, 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy; 
And  to  make  ye  fail  aisy  shall  be  my  endiver, 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

And  Oi'll  chant  ye  a  tale  with  a  different  chune, 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 
About  this  same  fellow  ye  call  the  gossoon, 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

It's  not  with  a  tayd'ous  narration  Oi'll  throuble  you; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy, 
Whin  we  knew  him  the  b'y  was  just  plain  Robert  W. 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

And  this  gallus  young  chap  was  as  foine  as  a  fiddle 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy, 
Till  he  started  to  parting  his  name  in  the  middle: 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

And  parting  his  name  was  th'  layst  iv  his  follies, 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy, 
Whin  he  wrote  himself  down  in  the  fashion  R.  Wallace; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

And  wearying  thin  of  his  plain  occupation 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy, 
He  married  a  gurrul  of  fortune  and  station; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 


34 


And  thin  into  politics  he  gallivanted; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy, 
And  wint  aff  campaigning  and  argued  and  ranted; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

But  politics  wasn't  at  last  to  his  liking; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy, 
And  he  lift  in  a  way  that  was  novel  and  sthriking; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 

And  thin  for  a  say  son  he  niver  was  seen; 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy; 
And  how  many  wives  did  ye  say?    The  spahlpeen. 

Och,  hone,  Mrs.  Me  Shaughnessy. 


To  a  Very  Large  Man 

You  ask  me  whether  I  could  learn  to  love, 
And  feel  the  flame  so  tender  and  so  true. 

Well,  yes;  I  think  I'd  love  to  see  myself 
Caught  loving  such  a  mastodon  as  you. 


SINN  FEIN 

0, 

Donnybrook  Fair  is  a  dandy, 

And  symbol  of  Oireland's  might; 
The  shillalah  that  iver  comes  handy 

Is  what  we  adore  in  a  fight; 
And  an  Oirishman  houlds  himself  ridy 
To  take  a  spahlpeen  b'  th'  t'roat, 
And  give  him  what  Bruin  gave  Teddy, 
If  you  tread  on  th'  tail  av  his  coat. 
That's  plain 
Hit  'm  again, 
Larry  O'Lane. 

Theer 

Sodgers  we  always  are  sthrifin', 

And  law  is  a  deadly  disgrace; 
So  the  Oirish  are  slily  conthrivin* 

To  have  none  at  all  in  its  place. 
We  don't  mooch  incloine  to  recruitin* 
Or  drillin' — contimptible  wark, — 
But  we're  overmuch  fonder  of  shootin' 
A  Bobby  or  two  in  the  park. 
Again, 
Sinn  Fein, 
Larry  O'Lane. 


36 


Coom 

Fighting  th'  Hun  in  his  helling, 
No  rigiment  Dublin  sinds; 
For  I  make  it  no  secret  in  telling, 

His  Allness  is  one  av  our  fr'ends; 
And  wheer  is  th'  use  av  a  shindy 
So  far  from  th'  Imerald  Isle, 
Whin  Ulster  is  aisy  and  handy, 

And  out  f'r  a  schrap  all  th'  whoile? 
Come  again, 
Sinn  Fein, 
Larry  O'Lane. 

M 

Voting  and  riprisentation 

No  Oirishman  cares  a  baubee ; 
We  prafir  to  consthruct  our  own  nation, 

And  sind  it  far  over  th'  sea. 
It's  freer  and  freer  from  bother 

Th'  furder  and  furder  we  go, 
And  our  cousins  beyant  th'  big  wather 
Are  willin'  to  pay  for  th'  show. 
Ach,  hane, 
That's  plain, 
Hit  'm  again, 
Sinn  Fein, 
Larry  O'Lane. 


37 


LARRY  O'LANE 

And  are  ye  belaiv'n,  me  hearty, 

And  wud  ye  be-loikely  applaud, 
Whin  Oi  tell  ye  our  Prisident's  party 
Is  mostly  conjaynial  abroad? 
Ach,  hane, 
Larry  O'Lane. 

This  Misther  (whut  is't?)  de  la  Mallery 
(It's  a  foine  combination  of  name, 
And  wort  th'  full  price  av  his  salary 
To  say  nothing  else  of  the  game.) 
Ach,  hane, 
Larry  O'Lane. 

And  whin  he  sthands  up  in  a  meetin' 
Wuth  Mayors  and  Gov'rners  all, 
Wuth  bowin'  and  schrapin'  and  greetin* 
For  sure  he's  the  belle  av  th'  ball. 
That's  plain, 
Larry  O'Lane. 

And  ivery  political  party 

That  plays  for  the  Oirish  vote 
Is  well  riprisented  and  hearty 
And  pipes  a  rispictible  note. 
Sinn  Fein, 
Larry  O'Lane. 


38 


And  whin  it  comes  round  to  th'  spaykin', 

There's  not  an  unoccupied  bench, 
And  th'  jaw  av  th'  spayker  is  breakin' 
Wuth  utterin'  Oirish  and  Frinch. 
Hit  'im  again, 
Larry  O'Lane. 

And  if  iver  it  comes  to  a  mocker, 

That  raises  his  v'ice  over  loud; — 
There's  a  bundle  av  sthicks  in  th'  locker, 
And  just  laive  th'  rist  to  th'  crowd. 
Ach,  hane, 
Larry  O'Lane, 
Sinn  Fein. 

And  if  iver  a  Hall  is  denied  us, 

(Bad  "cess,  it's  a  barn  av  a  place) 
There's  a  barrel  av  sulphur  beside  us; 
And  th'  shanty  goes  up  in  disgrace. 
Ach,  hane, 
Sinn  Fein, 
Larry  O'Lane, 
That's  plain, 
Come  again. 


39 


A  SPATTERED  PANE  OF  GLASS 

Drops  and  drops  of  water 

From  the  slanting  rain; 
Two  little  drops  of  water 

Trickling  down  the  pane; 
Now  are  their  ways  divided, 

Now  they  closer  run, 
Now  they  stop — now  they  start — 

Now  the  two  are  one. 
Drops  and  drops  a-many 

From  the  driving  rain, 
And  the  largest  drop  of  any 

Goes  skurrying  off  the  pane. 

Life,  my  dear,  is  only 

A  spattered  pane  of  glass; 
Our  lives  come  down  from  heaven, 

And  over  the  pane  they  pass; 
They  are  ever  hurrying  onward — 

Hastening  past  recall — 
And  some  go  singly  downward, 

While  some  commingling  fall; 
And  those  that  are  fondly  mated, 

In  the  space  of  a  fleeting  breath, 
Must  pass,  like  the  drops  that  are  fated, 

To  fall  o'er  the  sill  of  death. 


40 


UNCLE  PETER 

A  song  and  a  shout  to  my  old  Uncle  Peter; — 

The  jolliest  cooper — the  jolliest  task, — 
Who  hammers  away  with  a  rollicking  meter, 

And  sings  to  the  tune  on  his  barrel  or  cask. 

Oh,  Roundabout,  Roundabout,  why  do  you  tarry? 
There  s  beef  and  molasses  and  rum  for  to  carry; 
From  early  in  May  to  the  last  of  October 
You  re  bound  to  be  tight,  and  I'm  bound  to  £eep  sober. 

A  rusty  old  shop  on  the  bank  of  the  river; — 

I  see  it  today  with  the  eyes  of  a  boy; — 
Fond  memory  lingers  upon  it  and  ever 

Brings  visions  of  merry  employment  and  joy. 

There  are  barrels  in  stacks;  there  are  barrels  a-making, 
Of  cleanest  and  soundest  and  rosiest  oak; 

There  are  headings  and  staves  close  at  hand  for  the  taking, 
And  plenty  of  hickory  hoop-poles  a-soak. 

The  floor  is  all  covered  with  shavings  and  litter; 

There's  spice  of  fresh  wood,  and  there's  spice  of  fresh 

mirth. 
And  my  old  Uncle  Peter,  he  works  in  short  meter, 

The  busiest,  merriest  cooper  on  earth. 


41 


SONG  OF  THE  YACHT  ROYAL 

We're  away  from  the  shore  with  its  burden  of  care, 
We're  out  for  a  nip  of  the  jolly  salt  air, 
We're  tacking  to  lee  and  we're  tacking  to  port, 
And  every  man  Jack  is  a  nautical  sport. 

Royal,  ahoy,  ahoy;  Royal  ahoy! 

Aye,  aye,  Sir! 
Yachting  s  a  joy,  a  joy,  a  joy, 

We  shall  try,  Sir. 

Skipper  Dan  in  command,  Cox'n  Bill  at  the  wheel, 
We  are  gliding  along  on  a  slippery  keel; 
Our  course  is  Sou'west — for  the  island  we're  bound, 
(Look  out  for  your  head  when  the  boom  comes  round). 

The  wind  it  blows  fresh  from  the  Nor' -nor '-east, 
The  salt  water  foams  at  her  prow  like  yeast, 
And  the  spray  dashes  in,  just  to  show,  by  the  bye, 
That  nautical  sports  have  no  call  to  be  dry. 

The  Doctor  is  stowed  just  abaft  of  the  waist, 

For  a  sea-faring  life  is  not  up  to  his  taste, 

And  the  crew  heave-a-ho  with  a  bang  and  a  slam; 

But  the  Doctor  heaves  nothing — he  don't  care  a  damn. 

Seaman  Frank,  on  the  word,  takes  his  trick  at  the  mast, 
In  loosing  and  hauling,  and  then  making  fast; 
Like  a  seasoned  old  tar  he  is  chipper  and  glib, 
And,  by  way  of  diversion,  he  straddles  the  jib. 


42 


Sailor  Tom,  in  a  steady  and  sailor-like  way, 
Stands  by  at  the  stays  to  let  go  and  belay, 
And  Swashbuckler  Doodle,  with  nothing  to  do, 
Is  the  soberest  landsman  of  all  the  crew. 
Royal,  ahoy. 


TO  THE  PEACOCK 

Bird  of  flamboyant  dress  and  airs  sublime — 
Becoming  neither  prince  nor  varlet — 

If  vanity  were  counted  as  a  crime, 
Thy  sins  were  scarlet. 


Snake  He  Mafe  a  Hoe-Cafe 

Snake  he  make  a  hoe-cake, 
Set  a  frog  to  tend  it; 

Frog  he  eat  de  hoe-cake, 
Think  it  splendid; 

Snake  eat  frog  and  hoe-cake, 
As  he  fust  intended. 


43 


IT'S  GOING  TO  RAIN 

The  black  bear  is  out  in  the  mountains, 
The  hedgehog  is  out  on  the  plain; 

They  both  are  knowing  creatures, 
And — it's  going  to  rain. 

The  birds  and  the  chipmunks  and  gophers 
Are  storing  their  winter  grain; 

They  know  pretty  well  what's  coming, 
For — it's  going  to  rain. 

The  geese  are  flying  southward, 

In  many  a  trooping  train; 
They  hasten  to  tropical  countries 

For — it's  going  to  rain. 

The  anglers  are  rejoicing, 

And  one  and  all  maintain 
That  the  fish  bite  well  this  weather 

For — it's  going  to  rain. 

We  brush  with  desperation 

At  the  fly  that  won't  refrain, 

From  pestering  night  and  morning, 
For — it's  going  to  rain. 

There's  something  in  the  heavens 
That  wasn't  put  there  in  vain; 

The  clouds  all  look  portentous, 
And — it's  going  to  rain. 


44 


The  atmospheric  pressure 

Is  something  we  can't  explain; 

The  barometer  touches  bottom, 
And— it's  going  to  rain. 

And  Jupiter  P.,  the  mighty, 

Will  smile  on  his  people  again, 

And  the  land  will  bloom  in  beauty, 
For — it's  going  to  rain. 

And  the  grass  upon  the  hillside, 
And  the  corn  upon  the  plain 

Will  leap  to  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine, 
For — it's  going  to  rain. 


45 


OUR  LADY 

Our  Lady,  fair  Queen  of  the  Angels, 
That  ruleth  the  valley  of  bliss, 

The  saints  and  the  holy  evangels 
Salute  thee  to-day  with  a  kiss! 

And  legions  unnumbered  and  nameless 

Troop  forth  from  the  land  of  the  blest, 

And  even  the  anchorite,  blameless, 
Bestoweth  his  kiss  with  the  rest. 

Most  favored  of  all  the  immortals, 
Lo,  what  doth  Thy  Majesty  lack? 

Saint  Peter  stands  guard  at  thy  portals, 
Saint  Gabriel  waits  at  thy  back. 

Saint  Monica,  child  of  the  ocean, 

Most  youthful  of  all  and  most  fair, 

Makes  the  end  of  her  every  devotion 
To  charm  away  thy  care. 

And  Barbara,  blessed  hand-maiden, 
Stays  but  for  thy  royal  command, 

And  the  cloud  that  she  sends  is  rain-laden 
To  beautify  all  the  land. 

Francisco,  the  friar  of  Grey  Orders, 
His  benison  sends  from  afar, 

And  the  saints  that  dwell  over  the  borders 
Most  faithful  of  servitors  are. 


46 


Diego  contributes  his  portion 

To  make  thy  enjoyment  complete; 

And  Buenaventura,  good  fortune, 
Doth  ever  repose  at  thy  feet. 

Bernardino,  the  monk  of  the  mountains, 
Makes  humble  obeisance  as  well, 

And  the  patron  of  rivers  and  fountains 
Hath  come  to  thy  valley  to  dwell. 

And  I  doubt  not,  fair  Queen,  if  another, — 
Saint  Benedict — dwelt  in  this  land, 

Unable  his  passion  to  smother, 

He'd  proffer  his  heart  and  his  hand. 

Oh,  Queen!     I  bow  down  before  thee, 

Allegiance  unfailing  to  prove; 
'Midst  the  saints  and  the  men  who  adore  thee, 

I  offer  my  tribute  of  love. 

For  aye  be  our  Lady,  Queen  regnant 
In  this  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 

Where  the  sun  shineth  ever  benignant, 
And  where  nature  is  all  but  divine; 

Where  the  bee  stores  her  crystalline  treasure, 
The  mocking-bird  pipes  the  night  long, 

And  where  life  is  as  smooth  as  the  measure 
That  runs  through  the  poet's  song. 

And  our  Lady,  fair  Queen  of  the  Angels, 

That  rulest  the  valley  of  bliss, 
The  saints  and  the  holy  evangels 

Salute  thee  to-day  with  a  kiss. 


47 


SONG  OF  THE  AEROPLANE 

I  fly,  I  fly! 

With  wings  outstretched  that  never  tire,- 
Of  woven  web  and  thews  of  wire — 
And  with  a  throbbing  heart  of  fire, 

I  fly,  I  fly! 

I  sail,  I  soar! 

Over  the  land  and  over  the  sea, 
And  like  a  Brobdingnagian  bee, 
My  paddles  whir  a  threnody; 

I  sail  and  roar. 

I  circle  wide, 

Out  from  the  busy  marts  of  men, 
O'er  field  and  forest,  hill  and  glen, — 
O'er  all  the  country  side,  and  then 

I  dip  and  glide. 


I  journey  far, 


1  journey  rar, 
Like  bird  of  passage,  sent  by  Time 
To  carry  in  its  flight  sublime 
A  message  of  Spring  to  every  clime; 

I  journey  far. 


I  veer  and  climb, 
Like  eagle  wheeling  in  his  flight 
To  pierce  the  empyrean's  height, 
The  air  outmastered  by  my  might; 

I  veer  and  climb. 


48 


Afar,  afar, 

Where  the  void  enwraps  and  the  earth  grows  dim, 
Beyond  the  cloud  with  a  purple  rim, — 
I  wheel  and  dive  and  loop  and  skim; 

Afar,  afar. 

Like  bird  of  prey, 
I  fight  with  my  kind  aloft,  as  I  fly, 
And  the  death  that  I  deal  is  a  bolt  from  the  sky, 
That  only  the  bravest  dares  to  die; 

Like  bird  of  prey. 

Like  bird  a-wing, 
I  seek  the  pathless  fields  of  space, 
And  tread  the  air,  and  leave  no  trace, 
But  not  a  bird  shall  keep  my  pace, — 

No  bird  a-wing. 

In  eager  quest, — 

O'er  fields  of  green  and  hills  of  brown, 
With  rivers  winding  and  weaving  down, 
And  landscapes  spotted  with  city  and  town, 

I  make  my  quest. 

I  soar  and  sing, 

Over  the  desert's  shifting  bed, — 
Over  a  land  that  is  sere  and  dead, 
Over  the  Colorado  red, 

I  cleave  the  void. 


49 


My  way  is  free; — 

Beyond  the  mountains  wreathed  with  snow, 
Where  broad  Pacific  waters  flow, 
In  the  flowery  fields  of  the  after-glow, 

I  claim  mine  own. 

From  shore  to  shore 
I  span  a  continent,  and  ride 
The  winds  of  heaven  far  and  wide 
Across  old  ocean's  stormy  tide, 

To  claim  mine  own. 

The  air  is  mine. 
And  thus,  behold  I  issue  forth 
Another  Puck,  of  modern  birth, 
To  put  a  girdle  round  the  earth. 
The  air  is  mine! 

Echo 
I  fly,  I  fly, 

I  sail,  I  soar; 
I  circle  wide, 

And  journey  far; 

I  veer  and  climb, 

Like  bird  a- wing, 
In  eager  quest, 

I  soar  and  sing. 

The  air  is  mine; 

My  way  is  free 
From  shore  to  shore, 

From  sea  to  sea! 

50 


FOR  CHILDREN 
AND  GROWN-UPS 


HER  ALPHABET 

I  A  little  Miss  of  five  small  years 
'  before  her  teacher  stands,  'n 

Confused  and  bashful  she  appears, 

Demure,  with  many  ifs  'n  ands,  un- 

Easy  with  her  hands. 

For  such  a  very  little  lass 

Grows  nervous  sometimes, — just  a  bit— 

//ere  before  the  class. 
"/  think  you  know  your  letters,  dear, 
'Vust  see  if  you  can  say  them  clear. 
"/Ceep  looking  all  the  while  right  here, 
"Let  teacher  hear,  and  never  fear." 

A/iss  Hesitation  then  begins, 

yVot  looking  to  the  left  or  right, 

Or  ev'n  behind  her. 
"Precise  and  proper  every  way; 
"Quite  to  the  purpose,  let  me  say, 
"Requiring  never  a  reminder; — 
(So  well  in  fact,  that  all  the  school 

Takes  notice,  slighting  book  and  rule, — 

t/nheeding  all  their  lessons,  quite.) 
"K" — (marching  out  to  beat  the  band,) 
"W" — (proudly  struttin') 
"X" 

it  yr»» 

"Z,  Leg  o  Mutton, 
(&)  AND." 


53 


TO  BARBARA 

A  Saint,  a  City  and  a  Girl!    All  three 
Begin  the  spelling  of  their  names  with        B. 

The  City,  mistress  of  a  noble  bay, 

Seconds  the  motion  with  the  letter  A 

The  Girl  I'm  now  saluting  from  afar 

Joins  the  procession  with  the  letter  R. 

The  Saint  beginning  with  the  letter  B 

A  virgin-martyr  shines  in  history; 

The  City,  second  with  the  letter  A, 

Is  always  bright,  and  beautiful  and  gay; 

The  Girl,  who  follows  with  her  ready          R, 
Is  sweeter  than  the  Saint  and  City  are; 

And  when  she  closes  with  the  letter  A, 

I  give  her  my  devotion  right  away. 


54 


DOROTHY  DIX 

Dorothy  Dix, 

With  her  manners  and  tricks, 
Was  surely  an  elegant  creature; 

But  she  went  at  a  gait 

That  I  hate  to  relate, 
When  she  wouldn't  marry  the  preacher. 

"Oh,  Dorothy  Dix! 

"Oh,  Dorothy  Dix!" 
But  no  persuasion  could  reach  her; 

He  might  chortle  and  pray 

The  live-long  day, 
But  she  just  wouldn't  marry  the  preacher. 

Now,  the  man  of  her  choice 

Has  a  very  fine  voice 
(But  Dorothy  Dix  is  a  screecher) 

She  would  sing  in  the  choir 

If  it  was  our  desire, 
But  she  never  would  marry  the  preacher. 

Now  Dorothy  Dix 

Kept  her  manners  and  tricks, 
(She  was  surely  an  elegant  creature) 

And  powdered  her  face 

Till  it  was  a  disgrace 
And  shocked  the  disconsolate  preacher. 


55 


Now,  the  man  of  her  choice, 

With  the  very  fine  voice 
Didn't  fancy  this  elegant  creature 

She  might  mantle  her  hair 

To  the  dandiest  flare, 
But  he  wouldn't  come  up  like  the  preacher. 

And  Dorothy  Dix, 

In  a  deuce  of  a  fix 
Concluded  to  go  for  a  teacher, 

But  she  paddled  the  boys 

Till  they  made  a  big  noise, 
And  that  was  the  ultimate  feature. 

Now  Dorothy  Dix 

Went  for  any  old  sticks, 
(She  was  still  quite  an  elegant  creature) 

But  the  men  of  the  town 

Would  never  come  down; — 
No  stick  ever  stuck  like  the  preacher. 

And  Dorothy  Dix, 

With  her  frazzled  old  tricks 
Is  now  a  disconsolate  creature, 

For  the  man  she  forbid 

Has  a  wife  and  a  kid, 
And  she  cannot  marry  the  preacher. 


56 


AN  OPERETTA, 

Illuminating  Sentiment,  Romance,  Music,  The  Arts,  Crime, 
Intemperance,  Grief,  Joy,  The  Law,  Justice  and 

Retribution 

A  Sentimental  Barber 

I  love  to  steal  awhile  away;       (Opening 

To  steal,  to  steal  a-whay:  Solo — 

I  lo-hove  to  ste-heal  a-whay.     Tenor.) 

He  Plays  His  Guitar 
Oh,  what  in  the  world  care  I  (turn-turn,)  (Solo — 

For  the  triumphs  of  love  or  war?  Instrumental 

(tum-a-tum)  Obligato.) 

I'll  pass  the  baubles  by,  (tum-tum) 

And  strike  my  light  guitar,     (tum-a-tum, 
Tum-tum,  tum-tum-a-um-tum;  oh,  tummy-tum-tum.) 

But  Duty  Calls 

The  pleasures  of  life  are  vain;      (Solo — 
Our  moments  quickly  flee;    Mezzo- 
I  must  go  to  the  shop  again,        Soprano.) 
And  wield  my  snick-er-snee. 

(In  the  Barber's  absence,  a  thirsty  Troubadour  appro 
priates  the  instrument;  and  with  the  proceeds  thereof, 
indulges  his  propensities.) 

The  Troubadour  Sings 
Give  me  (a-hic)  sweet  solace,  dearest; 

Whizzer  shweet  words  (hie)  into  m*  ear;   (Solo— 
Call  me  your  blezzerest  angel,  dearest,  Tenor.) 

Si  (hie)  sittin'  on  a  keg  of  beer. 

(The  Barber  discovers  his  loss,  and  bewails  it.) 


67 


His  Wail 
The  lute  that  once  through  my  barber-shop 

The  soul  of  music  shed,  (Solo — 

Is  stol'n  and  gone,  and  I  sadly  feel        Baritone.) 

As  if  my  soul  were  dead. 

(The  Barber  appeals  to  the  Law  for  redress.) 

His  Appeal 
Oh,  Stars,  shine  on  thy  pathway. 

Catch  me  this  thief,  I  prithee,  (Solo — 

And  may  the  blessings  of  my  grateful  spirit   Basso 
Dwell  ever  after  with  thee.  Profundo.) 

Chorus  of  Stars 
We  shine  alike  for  all;  (Chorus — 

We  search  the  depths  of  night;  Male 
Yon  Troubadour  shall  fall  Voices.) 

Within  our  grip  so  tight.        (Repeat  Chorus 

Five  Times.) 

(Stirring  chase  through  the  forest  and  elsewhere  for  the 
Troubadour.) 

Chorus  Again 
Sleep  hath  enchained  him,  (Encore  for 

With  her  subtle  bands; —       Preceding 
Now  we  have  obtained  him;          Chorus.) 
Hold  his  legs  and  hands. 

Another  Chorus 
Slowly  and  sadly  they  laid  him  down, 

So  fresh  from  his  field  of  glory:         (Female 
Perhaps  in  the  morning  he'll  sober  be,       Voices.) 
And  tell  a  lugubrious  story. 


58 


The  Search 
We  search  the  misty  ways  (Duet — 

Of  the  shadows  that  move  by  night; —  Male.) 
The  game  that  Isaac  plays  (Atmosphere 

Will  yield  the  loot  all  right.       of  Searching.) 

Recovery 
The  favor  of  heaven  our  noble  cause  hath  gained, 

And  it  is  now  our  solace  and  our  joy;      (Response  in 
We  gathered  it,  and  Isaac  hath  explained;          Staccato.) 
So  here's  your  lost  pianner,  barber-boy. 

The  Barber's  Joy 
Ka-lump,  ko-lump,  ki-ling, 

Pi-r-r-r-r-uten-te-toot-te-too, 
Tum-tummy,  turn-turn,  te-tum,    (Instrumental) 
Oh,  whack,  fa-loo-ral-loo! 

The  Culprit's  Tale 
I'm  a  Pilgrim  and  I'm  a  Stranger, 
I  have  tarried,  I  have  tarried,  but  a  night;     (Solo, 
Do  not  detain  me,  oh,  please,  your  Honor,       De- 
And  I'll  vanish  very  quickly  from  your  sight,  pressed) 

Retribution 
A  pick,  a  rake,  a  hoe,  (Grand  finale.     All 

And  a  ball  and  chain  to  boot;        on  Stage.     Solo  by 
Oh,  this  is  dreadful  woe, 

Oh,  this  is  a  dire  pursuit! 
I  would  that  I  were  dead 

Ere  this  wretched  thing  befell; 
I  would  the  guitar  were  sunk 

In  the  uttermost  depths  of  hell. 


Heavy  Villain. 
Ball  and  Chain 
Accompaniment.) 


59 


SHOOING  OUT  THE  HENS 

Friday 

Oh,  Pap  is  in  the  stable, 

Hitching  up  the  filly ; 
Mam  is  in  the  kitchen, 

Making  apple  jelly; 

Johnny's  in  the  orchard, 

Talking  to  his  fr'ens 

And  Sis  is  in  the  garden, 

Shooing  out  the  hens. 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 

And 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 
Shooing  out  the  hens. 

Saturday 

Oh,  Pap  has  gone  to  market, 

With  a  tub  of  butter; 
Mam  is  in  the  dining-room, 

In  a  reg'lar  splutter; 
Sis  is  in  the  parlor 

Talking  to  her  beau, 
And  Johnny's  in  the  garden, 
Trying  for  to  shoo. 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 
(Spoken)  Get  out  o'  here,  gol-dern  ye!  (Throws) 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 
(Spoken)  Everlastingly  consarn  ye!       (Throws) 


60 


Sunday 

Oh,  Pap  has  gone  to  meetin' 

For  his  Bible  study; 
Sis  has  gone  a-walkin' 

With  her  little  buddy, 
Johnny  hasn't  come  yet 

From  his  Sunday  School, 
And  Mam  is  in  the  garden, 
Acting  like  a  fool. 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 

And  (Acting  it.) 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo!! 

Monday 

Oh,  Mam  has  gone  a-callin' 

On  our  nearest  neighbor; 
Sis  is  in  the  pantry 

Doing  useful  labor; 
Johnny-boy  is  restin' 
For  a  little  spell, 
And  Dad  is  in  the  garden, 
Raising  merry  hell. 

Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo! 

(Spoken)        You  damn  infernal  measly  set!!  (Raising 
Shoo,  shoo,  shoo,  shoo!!!  it.) 

Raising  merry  hell. 


61 


A  WONDERFUL  LITTLE  ITALIAN  MAN 

Tis  a  curious  tale,  if  the  tale  be  true; 
As  'twas  told  to  me  I  tell  it  to  you. 

The  Grinder 
The  story  ran 

Of  a  wonderful  little  Italian  man, 
A  genius  who  played 
An  organ  by  trade, 
And  sang,  (or  at  least  essayed, 
For  his  voice  was  appalling,) 
And  gathered  in  dimes  from  the  public,  and  made 
A  very  good  thing  from  his  calling. 

His  Organ 
It  would  play 

In  its  very  proper  mechanical  way, — 
Always  true,  needing  no  apology — 
Sixteen  tunes  and  the  doxology. 
And  when  all  of  its  airs  and  the  sacred  refrain 
Had  been  ground  by  the  grinder  again  and  again, 
They  were  still  as  sweet,  as  tender  and  true 
And  as  good  as  new. 

His  Monkey 

There  followed  close  at  the  grinder's  heels, 
With  a  tireless  succession  of  jigs  and  reels, 

A  monkey,  trim, 

Supple  of  limb, 

In  color  dun, 

And  full  of  fun, 


62 


And  the  boys  were  exceedingly  fond  of  him. 
Wherever  the  grinder  went  to  grind, 
The  monkey  always  appeared  behind, 
And  whenever  he  opened  his  mouth  to  sing, 
The  monkey  danced  at  the  end  of  his  string. 

His  Music 
In  a  stoical  way 

Early  and  late  the  grinder  would  play, 
Never  skipping  a  tune,  never  losing  a  day; 

And  'twas  said  thus  he  had  played 

For  at  least  a  decade; 

Yet  there  wasn't  a  sign 

Of  any  decline, 

And  after  all  this,  folks  fell  into  a  doubt 
Whether  organ  or  grinder  would  ever  wear  out. 

His  Ways 

Whenever  you  opened  your  window  or  blind, 
He'd  come  and  he'd  grind  and  he'd  grind  and  he'd  grind; 
His  rummy  old  songs  he  would  warble  amain, 
Keeping  time  to  the  organ's  mellifluous  strain, 
And  the  monkey  enthused,  began  cutting  his  antic, 

And  then  you  were  frantic. 
With  nerves  at  a  tension  beyond  your  command, 
You  seized  upon  anything  ready  at  hand, 

And  through  window  or  door, 

At  the  wretched  bore 

You  flung  it — and  swore. 


63 


His  Perquisites 
Then  the  grinder  stood  in  the  meekest  attitude, 

Dodging  both 

Missile  and  oath, 
And,  expressing  by  sign  his  deepest  gratitude, 

Gracefully  bent, 
Laid  hold  of  the  article — and  went. 

His  Thrift 

Thus  he  passed  through  the  town, 

Gathering  goods  and  renown, 
And  from  all  of  the  missiles  dispatched  at  his  head, 
Reaped  a  handsome  reward, — and  still  wasn't  dead. 

His  Mischance 

But  it  happened  one  time  I  am  pained  to  relate 
He  tried  once  too  often,  and  met  his  fate. 

One  ill-omened  day, 

The  legends  say, 

He  came  to  a  stop 

In  front  of  the  shop 

Of  a  savage  old  Dutchman  of  sinister  trade, 
And  then  the  Italian  he  played. 

Now  these  Dutchmen, — 

Butchers  and  such  men — 

Do  not  care  a  straw 

For  life,  limb  or  law; 
And  the  one  that  I  mention, 
With  savage  intention, 

Laid  hold  of  a  saw. 


64 


His  Fate 

With  no  more  ado 

Than  such  craftsmen  make 

In  cutting  a  steak, 

Or  cleaving  through 

A  rib  or  stew, 

He  sawed  the  poor  grinder  in  two. 
Then  a  policeman  came  down  on  a  canter 
And  arrested  the  villainous  butcher  instanter. 
The  Law 

In  durance  vile 

He  languished  a  while, 
And  at  length  in  quite  the  regular  way, 
The  culprit  appeared  in  court  one  day, 
And  a  sad  looking  spectacle  truly  was  he, 
Arraigned  for  murder,  the  first  degree. 

The  Defense 

When  the  time  for  defense  came  on  in  the  trial, 
The  butcher's  attorney  arose  with  a  smile, 
And  he  said,  "Please  your  Honor,  my  client's  insane 

That's  plain 

Such  a  horrid  grind 

Would  unsettle  the  mind 
Of  the  devil,  your  Honor,  (not  being  profane)." 

The  Argument 

I  need  not  detail  how  he  twisted  the  laws, 
Picking  code  and  indictment  full  of  flaws, 
Or  how  he  worked  himself  into  a  fury, 

And  made  it  appear 

That  the  butcher  was  queer 

Up  here, 
And  by  dint  of  his  eloquence,  carried  the  jury. 

65 


Retribution 

The  butcher  walked  forth  a  free  man, 

Yet  a  terrible  ban 

Was  set  by  the  fates  upon  him; 
And  wherever  he  comes  and  wherever  he  goes 
He  is  troubled  in  conscience,  and  robbed  of  repose,- 
His  former  friends  all  shun  him, 

And  from  far  and  near 

There  sounds  in  his  ear 
The  dolorous  tone  of  an  organ  ground, — 
And  haunts  him  forever  the  ghost  of  a  sound. 


THE  TIME  0'  DAY 

What  is  the  hour,  little  Mary? 

Tell  me  the  time,  my  pet, 
The  wise  little  minx,  she  looks,  and  she  thinks; 

"ICs  twenty  minutes  past  yet." 

But  that's  not  the  hour,  little  Mary, — 
Neither  morning  nor  night  nor  noon. 

And  looking  again,  says  the  oracle,     "Then 
"ICs  a  quarter  to  pretty  soon." 


66 


LURE  OF  THE  HYDRANT 
The 


tcr 
from 

the 

hy- 

drant 
drips, 

Dripping  away  and  dripping, 
In  many  merry  hops  and  skips, 

Skipping  away  and  skipping. 

I 
hear 

the 
fun 
ny 
drops 

at 
play, 

Playing  away  and  playing, 
As  once  upon  a  childhood  day. 

Running  away  and  staying. 


67 


Now 
like 

a 

rat 
tling 
drum 

it 
goes, 

Going  away  and  going; 
The  merry  music  onward  flows, 

Flowing  away  and  flowing. 

Now 
like 


a 
ban- 

jo's 
tink- 


a- 
tink 

Tinking  away  and  tinking, 
And  ev'ry  tinkle  brings  a  think, 

Thinking  away  and  thinking. 


But 
still 

the 
ban. 

jo 

tink 
les 
there 

Hopping  away  and  tearing, 
And  tinks  and  tinks  and  doesn't  care, 

Caring  away  and  caring. 

And 


there 
comes 

a 
round- 


lay. 

Rounding  away  and  rounding, 
The  music  seems  to  be  so  gay, 

Bounding  away  and  bounding. 


69 


Now 
like 

a 
lit- 

tie 
boy 

at 
play, 

Playing  away  and  playing, 
Who  knows  he  hadn't  ought  to  stay, 

Staying  away  and  staying. 

Now 
as 

an 
or 


gan 
whee 


zy 

blows, 

Wheezy  it  is  and  wheezy, 
The  little  boy  uneasy  grows, 

Uneasy  and  uneasy. 


70 


But 
still 

he 
hears 

the 
mer 
ry 
din, 

A-rattling  and  a-striking; 
I  think  I'd  better  now  begin 

To  do  a  little  hiking. 

If 
this 

con 
found- 

ed 
or 
ches 
tra 

Would  quit  its  fiddle-faddling. 
(You  know  that  only  yesterday 

You  got  an  awful  paddling!) 


71 


I 

think 

I 

bet 
ter 
go 

a- 
way, 

A-going  and  a-going, 
And  come  again  another  day, 

And  hear  the  water  flowing. 

There! 
now 

I 
hear 

a 

lit 
tle 
bell 

A-ringing  and  a-ringing, 
A  song  o'  sixpence,  I  can  tell 

I'll  pretty  soon  be  singing. 


72 


HIP-E-TY-HOP 
Oh, 

lilp- 

C- 

ty- 
hop, 

to 
the 
barb 
er 

shop, 
To  shear  the  ringlets  of  sonny, 


And 
hip- 


e- 

ty 

back 

in 
the 
same 

old 

track 
We  haven't  a  cent  of  money. 

73 


Oh, 

hip- 


e- 

ty- 
hop 

to 
cand- 

y 

shop 
To  the  tune  of  Old  Dan  Tucker, 

And, 
hip- 
e- 

ty 

back, 

With  a  load  to  pack, 
And  bringing  an  all-day  sucker. 


74 


Oh 
hip- 
e- 

ty 

whack, 
we're 
o- 
ver 
and 
back 
And  what  have  we  got  for  dinner? 

You 
must 
nev 
er 
be 
late 

You 

must 

sit 

up 

straight 

and 

not  play 

with  your 

plate, 
And  never  be  first  beginner. 


75 


Oh,  hipety  hop, 
With  Aunty  and  Pop 
To  see  the  big  show  in  the  Rink,  come 
hur 


ry 


a- 


long,  and 
he'll 


sing 
you 


song, 
that 


won 
der 
ful 
Rhi- 
nos- 
er- 
ink- 
tum. 


76 


JOHNNY  SEES  THE  CIRCUS 


Oh,  say!  Johnny  Jones, 
Come,  rattle  your  bones 
And  hurry!    Just     j 


U              V 

m         e 

P         r 

i 

e 

t 

n 

h 

c 

e 

e  and  come 

0 

v    e     r 

h 

e 

r 

e 

r 
u 
n 
n 
i 

n 
g 


For  the  Circus  has  come, 
And  I  hear  the  big  Drum; 


77 


I 

got     F 

h 

I 

0 

p 

F 

e 

T 

Y 

Y  C 

0  E 

Uhave  NTS! 

*    ****** 


No  matter  for  that, 
We  can  both  stand  pat, 
For  I  haven't  got  much  to  brag  on, 
And  the  best  we  can  do 
To  see  this  thing  through, 


78 


I 

s 

t 

0 

f 

0 

[j 

0 

W 

T 

H 

E 

C 

I 

R 

C 

u 

S 

W 

A 

G 

0 

N 
Oh,  isn't  it  Grand! 

For 

HERE 
COMES 

THE 
B     A     N    D  !  I 

79 


And  next  come 

The 

C  L 

I  A 

R  D 

C  I 

U  E 

S  S 

And 

THE 
BEST 

0  F 
THE 

SHOW 

1  S 
SEEING  THEM    GO! 

80 


And 
TO 
BE 


W 
H 
E 
R 
E 


W 
H 
E 
R 
E 


The 


A 
R 

A 
D 
E 


81 


And 
H 


E 
R 
E 

Comes 
THE 
CLOWN  : 

GEE  WHIZ! 
F    a    1    1- 

n 
g 


D 
0 
W 

N 


And  ain't  HE  the  FUNNIEST  EVER? 
HE  JOSHES 

'EM  ALL. 

HE'S  THE  BELLE  of 
the 

BALL! 
And  GEE!    ain't  He  WITTY  and  CLEVER! 


82 


And 
H 
E 
R 
E 

Come 
T 
h 
e 

JAZZ 
E     R    S 

and 
ain't 

they 
THE 
F 
0 
0 
L 
S 


And  HERE  THEY'RE 

C     0     M  I      N    G! 

The 

A  U 

N  L 

I  E 

M  S 


And 

Here's  the  HyE- 
NA  in  his  Van; 
I  bet  that  HE 

HAS  ET  A  MAN! 

And 

Here's 

The 

L-I-O-N! 

HEAR 

H 
I 

M 
R-O-A-RI! 

I 

Bet 
That 
HE 

Has  ET  Some  More! 

And 

Here's  The 
H-I-P-P-0. 

Hear 

HIM 

G  -  R  -  U  -  N  -  T  ! 

84 


And  HERE  COMES  A  GREAT,  BIG 


1 
E 

q  P 

H          H 
U          U 

N    N 
T 


1 

E 

S    P 
H          H 

U          U 

N    N 

T 

e 

1 

E 

q    P 
H          H 

U          U 

N    N 

T 


85 


And,  Johnny,  say! 
Don't  cher  know  they  eat  hay — 
And  stuff — and  everything — by  the  bale? 
And  they're  marching  along, 

PONG, 

PONG; 
PONG, 

PONG; 

And  holding  theirselves  by  the  tail! 


JOHNNY  SEES  THE  CIRCUS 

[The  same  as  foregoing  in  plain  verse] 

Oh,  say!  Johnny  Jones! 

Come  rattle  your  bones! 
And  hurry!    Jump  over  the  fence! 
And  come  over  here  a-running; 

For  the  Circus  has  come, 

And  I  hear  the  big  Drum; — 
I  hope  you  have  got  fifty  cents! 


No  matter  for  that! 

We  can  both  stand  pat; 
For  I  haven't  got  any  to  brag  on; 

And  the  best  we  can  do 

To  see  this  thing  through, 
Is  to  follow  the  Circus  Wagon. 


86 


Oh,  isn't  it  grand! 

For  here  comes  The  Band!! 
And  next  come  the  Circus  Ladies! 

And  the  best  of  the  Show 

Is  seeing  them  go, 
And  to  be  where  the  Circus  Parade  is. 

And  here  comes  the  Clown! 

Gee,  whiz!    Falling  down! 
And  ain't  he  the  funniest  ever? 

He  joshes  'em  all; — 

He's  the  Belle  of  the  Ball— 
And,  gee!  ain't  he  witty  and  clever? 

And  here  come  the  Jazzers; — and  ain't  they  the  fools? 
And  here  they  are  coming! — the  Animules!! 

Here's  the  HyE- 

Na  in  his  van; — 
I  bet  that  HE 

Has  et  a  man. 

And  here's  the  LI 
ON.  Hear  him  Roar! 
.       I  bet  that  HE 

Has  et  some  more! 

And  here's  the  Hippo! 

Hear  him  Grunt! 
And  here  comes  the  Great 

Big  Elephunt!! 


87 


And,  Johnny,  say! 

Don't  cher  know,  they  eat  hay, 
And  stuff, — and  ever'thing — by  the  bale! 

And  they're  marching  along, 

PONG!  PONG!  PONG!  PONG! 
And  holding  theirselves  by  the  tail! 


88 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


AH  GET  AND  YOU  BET 

The  thrifty  N'  Goon  loved  the  nifty  You  Bet, 
And  he  followed  the  fashion  his  countrymen  set, — 
Not  of  simpering,  smiling  and  making  goo-goo, 
As  lovers  Caucasian  think  they  must  do, — 
But  the  way  that  appealed  to  N'  Goon,  the  thrifty 
Was  cash  on  the  counter, — two  hundred  and  fifty. 

And  the  happy  N'  Goon,  with  Mongolian  art, 
Took  the  nifty  You  Bet  to  his  home  and  his  heart. 

Now  party  the  third  in  this  business  transaction 
Had  a  mind  of  her  own, — or  rather,  a  fraction; 
(As  much,  Oriental  scholars  agree, 
As  is  good  for  a  maid  of  the  heathen  Chinee.) 
And  You  Bet  had  a  glimmering  shade  of  a  thought 
That  she  (in  plain  English)  didn't  like  to  be  bought. 


The  shifty  Ah  Get  was  a  grocer's  clerk; — 
Or  call  him  fac-totum — a  man  of  all  work; — 
And  he  served  out  dried  fish  and  lizards'  tails, 
And  punk-sticks,  ginger  and  bottled  snails, 
And  Chinese  herbs,  and  bumble-bees'  wings, 
And  many  other  delectable  things 
That  the  Chinese  hold  in  such  high  esteem, 
And  enter  into  the  grocer's  scheme. 


91 


And  the  shifty  Ah  Get  had  an  intellect 

That  commanded  the  Boss's  highest  respect, 

For  he  worked  all  the  time,  and  was  keen  in  trade, 

Kept  track  of  the  dollars  the  business  made, 

And  wrote  the  books,  (or  say  the  scroll) 

And  knew  the  stock  in  part  and  whole. 

And  the  shifty  Ah  Get  did  not  tarry  there, 

For  he  went,  every  Sunday,  to  praise  and  prayer 

In  the  Chinese  Mission,  down  the  street; 

(And  a  lot  of  verses  he  could  repeat) 

And  he  studied  of  nights,  and  odd  times  days, 

To  learn  Amelican  words  and  ways. 


When  the  thrifty  N'  Goon  took  home  his  bride, 
To  love  and  honor,  to  cook  and  abide, 
He  knew  that  a  treasure  so  dearly  bought 
Should  be  kept  and  guarded  with  every  thought. 
So  he  locked  the  door  and  kept  the  key, 
And  his  was  the  only  face  she  could  see. 

But  the  nifty  You  Bet,  in  durance  held, 

Against  such  surveillance  rebelled, 

And  she  thought  and  thought  of  the  shifty  Ah  Get, 

(On  whom  her  little  heart  was  set) 

And  she  started  her  glimmering  shade  of  a  mind, 

As  she  was  inclined,  a  way  to  find. 


And  how  she  did  it  I  cannot  disclose, 

But  she  slipped  from  N'  Goon — right  under  his  nose— 

And  straight  to  the  Mission  You  Bet  flew, 

Before  all  Chinatown's  startled  view. 

And  the  Mission  Matron,  (bless  her  heart!) 
Knew  how  to  take  a  China  girl's  part. 
When  the  thrifty  N*  Goon,  in  a  deuce  of  a  fret, 
Came  down  to  claim  his  little  pet, 
She  wasn't  obtainable, — not  just  yet — 
And  the  Matron  told  N'  Goon  to  get. 

Now  the  thrifty  N'  Goon  knew  a  thing  or  two 
About  the  way  that  'Melicans  do, 
And  he  went  to  a  lawyer  of  Chinese  fame, 
And  put  him  wise  to  the  little  game. 
And  the  lawyer  drew  a  formal  charge 
Against  a  China  girl  at  large, 
For  the  crime  of  petty  larceny; 
(And  gracefully  pocketed  his  fee). 
The  stolen  chattels  were  not  set  down 
In  the  lawyer's  complaint  that  was  done  so  brown, 
But  he  knew,  as  plain  as  white  and  black, 
That  they  meant  the  clothes  on  the  China  girl's  back. 
*****      **** 

Now  the  shifty  Ah  Get  knew  a  thing  as  well, 

(But  what  he  knew  he  wouldn't  tell) 

And  he  slipped  up  town  when  the  fuss  began, 

And  bought  a  paper  from  a  man, 

And  the  paper  mentioned  the  name  of  Ah  Get, 

And  another  just  after  it,  You  Bet. 

93 


This  straight  to  the  Mission  House  he  bore, 
And  went  around  to  the  kitchen  door, 
And  skipped  up  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  jump, 
And  into  her  room  with  a  bang  and  thump. 

And  next  we  find  the  pair  up  town, 

In  the  office  of  City  Justice  Brown, 

And  the  Wedding  March  has  been  duly  played, 

(When  they  marched  up  here  without  fuss  or  parade) 

And,  looking  as  stern  as  he  possibly  can, 

The  Justice  is  there  to  pronounce  the  bann, 

And  the  Bailiff  acts  as  groom's  best  man. 


Now,  when  that  complaint  had  been  duly  filed, 

And  the  Law's  formalities  reconciled, 

An  Officer,  armed  with  warrant  and  gun, 

Bore  down  the  Mission  House  upon, 

And  with  haughty  words  and  peremptory  air, 

Demanded  the  criminal  harbored  there. 

But  no  hidden  criminal  does  he  find; 

(He  is  just  a  little  bit  behind) 

For  the  girl  he  seeks  is  now  Mrs.  Ah  Get, 

Not  a  slave  or  criminal,  You  Bet. 


94 


THE  AHKOOND  OF  SWAT 

What! 

The  Ahkoond  of  Swat! 

That  august  and  virile  des-pot! 

You  do  not 

Know  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat? 

My  dear  fellah,  despite 

An  unvarying  rule  (which  no  doubt 

You've  observed  in  my  conduct  throughout) 

I'm  obliged  to  indite — 

Maugre  the  wish  to  be  always  polite — 

That  your  statement's  diaphonous — quite! 

Why,  the  Ahkoond's  illustrious  name 

Is  proclaimed  on  the  outposts  of  fame! 

Wherever  human  conceit 

Feels  a  bigness  it  cannot  repeat; — 

Wherever  the  diaphragm  swells 

With  the  sense  that  true  greatness  impels — 

No  name  titillating  the  world's  epiglottis 

Is  mentioned  so  oft  as  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat  is. 

On  this  coign  of  vantage  he  stands 

And  commands, 

With  a  flamboyant  wave  of  the  hands, 

And  this  proposition  is  plain, 

That  whatever  may  chance  his  domain, 

Monsieur  Tonson  is  come  again. 


95 


So  I  hope  you'll  no  longer  gainsay 

The  sway 

Of  this  versatile  Prince  of  Cathay, 

Whose  aplomb  is  unique  in  a  way! 

Let  his  enemies  all  go  to  pot 

With  their  polysyllabic  rot! 

All  hail  to  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat! 

AN  ALLEGORICAL  DITTY 
Respectfully  dedicated  to  a  great  railroad  corporation 

I  knew  an  old  fellow  a  long  time  ago, — 
A  finer  old  fellow  one  never  may  know — 
Who  owned  in  this  valley  a  good  piece  of  soil, 
And  made  it  productive  by  generous  toil. 

He  spared  not  the  labor  of  head  or  of  hand 
And  developed  his  water  and  harrowed  his  land, 
And  he  prodded  about  with  his  spade  and  his  hoe, 
And  induced  every  planting  to  get  up  and  grow. 

Then  the  autumn  came  round,  and  his  labor  was  o'er, 
His  corn  and  his  pumpkins  all  gathered  in  store; 
With  his  rasher  of  bacon,  his  barrel  of  beer, 
This  jolly  old  fellow  had  plenty  of  cheer. 

Now  this  well-to-do  farmer,  he  says  with  a  wink, 
"I've  more  than  enough  for  my  own  meat  and  drink, 
So  I'll  harness  my  mule  to  the  cart  and  drive  down, 
And  dispose  of  this  truck  to  the  folks  of  the  town." 


96 


Then  he  goes  to  the  village  and  stops  at  the  store; 
He  barters  his  load  for  provisions  galore — 
Flour,  sugar  and  tea  and  a  dollar  or  two, 
And  a  nip  of  Old  Rye  when  his  trading  is  through. 

So  he  lived  and  he  flourished  year  in  and  year  out, 
Grew  heavy  in  pocket,  in  body  grew  stout; 
What  he  had  in  excess,  what  he  happened  to  lack, 
The  mule  always  carried  to  market  or  back. 


There  came  a  fine  stranger,  accomplished  of  tongue, 

And  the  song  of  a  siren  the  stranger  he  sung; 

He  told  the  old  fellow  his  mule  was  too  slow, 

And  such  "countrified"  ways  wouldn't  do — not  for  Joe. 

Said  the  stranger  at  last,  after  arguin'  and  arguin', 
"Let  me  have  your  mule,  and  I'll  give  you  a  barg-u-ain: 
You  shall  ride  to  the  town  when  you  will  in  my  shay, 
And  there  won't  be  much  trouble,  I  guess,  'bout  the  pay. 

"But  before  we  accomplish  this  elegant  trade, 
(And  a  better  I  bet  that  you  never  have  made), 
To  prevent  any  mishap  from  breaking  the  charm, 
You  just  give  me  your  note,  with  a  lien  on  your  farm." 

Then  the  silly  old  fellow  relinquished  his  mule, 
And  mortgaged  his  farm, — very  like  a  big  fool, 
And  he  got  not  a  thing  in  the  world  he  could  brag  on 
But  a  ride  now  and  then  in  the  stranger's  fine  wagon. 

97 


And  thus  matters  went;  but  before  very  long 
The  stranger  was  singing  a  different  song; 
He  grumbled  and  growled  and  demanded  big  pay 
Every  time  the  old  fellow  would  ride  in  his  shay. 

The  corn  and  the  pumpkins  all  went  to  the  share 
Of  the  man  who  demanded  their  value  in  fare, 
And  the  farmer  lamented  in  anguish  and  pain, 
And  wished  in  his  heart  for  his  mule  back  again. 

A  BARMECIDAL  FEAST 

Ah  there,  my  demagogic  friend,  I  note 

With  unassumed  distress,  sir, 
Your  newest  scheme  to  catch  the  wary  vote 

And  its  possessor. 

Although  I  own  the  method  is  beset 

With  some  slight  incongruity, 
It  takes  the  cake  o'er  every  method  yet 

For  ingenuity. 

Behold  a  Barmecidal  feast  is  spread, 

And  beamed  on  by  the  Mayor, 
While  you  bring  intellectual  meat  and  bread, 

As  chief  purveyor. 

And,  not  content  to  serve  a  simple  bill 

Of  bread  and  meat  nutritious, 
The  board  with  sweets  of  platitude  you  fill, — 

All  quite  delicious. 

98 


While  on  the  festal  gathering  you  bestow 

Obsequious  devotion, 
A  grim  confederate  is  loitering  below 

With  deadly  potion. 

You  spread  the  jam  just  thick  and  smooth  enough- 

A  worthy  occupation, — 
While  he  deals  out  the  poison,  quantum  suf, 

And  spikes  the  ration. 

You  work  together  with  sublime  accord, 

And  as  the  feast  advances, 
You  take  for  virtue  the  assured  reward, — 

He  takes  his  chances. 

And  what  between  the  goodies  you  bestow 

And  his  conserves  unerring, 
You  catch  the  voters  as  they  come  and  go, 

As  dead  as  herring. 

You  talk  of  loyalty  and  human  rights, 

Society  upholding, 
While  he  in  anarchistic  plot  delights, 

His  scheme  unfolding: 

Down  with  the  rights  of  property  and  men! 

Down  with  the  nation! 
Well  revolutionize  society,  and  then 

Unmade  creation! 

Our  nihilistic  banner  we  unfurl 

The  while  we  are  recruiting, 
Then  blood  and  fire  shall  start  the  merry  whirl. 

And  bring  the  looting! 

99 


Alas,  my  demagogic  friend,  I  fear 

Your  pard  is  too  outspoken; 
The  double  game  you  play  is  made  so  clear 

The  charm  is  broken. 

We  care  not  for  your  Barmecidal  show, 

No  matter  how  you  spread  it; 
The  anarchist  and  demagogue  must  go; — 

The  fates  have  said  it. 

AT  A  CHRISTMAS  JINKS 
To  Judge  Enoch  Knight,  with  a  Garter 

This  item  of  female  attire, 

And  insignia  of  station, 
That  every  good  man  doth  inspire 

With  true  veneration, 
We  pass  to  the  head  of  the  board, 

By  way  of  a  starter, 
And  dub  our  good  chairman  a  Lord, 

And  a  Knight  of  the  Garter. 

MY  FLOWING  BOWL 

A  Bowl  of  any  color  or  kind, 

Provided  it's  open  and  flaring; 
A  Spoon,  conveniently  shaped  and  designed, 

And  one  that  keeps  bright  in  the  wearing; 
A  crust  of  bread  or  a  cracker  or  two, 

And  a  pint  of  milk  from  the  cellar; — 
Here  is  a  dinner  that's  good  for  you, 

And  for  me,  and  for  Mr.  Rock'feller. 

100 


To  F.  A.  G.,  with  a  Pencil 
When  times  get  most  distressing, — 
When  financial  needs  are  pressing, 
And  we  tell  our  doleful  story 
At  the  bank, 
Bank, 

Bank, 

With  suaviter  unbroken, 
You  will  take  this  little  token, 

And  you'll  make  a  memorandum, 
Won't  you,  Frank, 
Frank, 

Frank? 

To  F.  W.  W.t  Street  Railway  Manager,  with  a  Brother-in-law* 

Hear  the  mellow,  tinkling  bells — 

Nickel  bells. 
What  a  world  of  secret  joy 

The  brother-in-law  foretells. 
Through  the  car  by  day  and  night, 
Keeping  coyly  out  of  sight, 
Knocking  down  the  nickels  bright; 
While  the  tinkle-tankles  float 
From  beneath  the  buttoned  coat, — 
And  the  spotter's  taking  note 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  - 

Of  the  rhyming,  chiming  bells. 
Oh,  pshaw. 

What  is  life  without  the  jingle 
Of  a  brother-in-law? 

*NOTE:  A  false  device,  with  a  bell  concealed  beneath  the  conductor's  coat,  to  rob 
the  company  of  fares,  and  delude  the  public  into  the  belief  that  the  fares  were  regularly 
rung  up. 

101 


ENIGMA* 

In  sea  and  sky  and  under  ground 
I  'm  everywhere,  yet  nowhere  found. 

I'm  older  than  the  Sanscrit  text, 
Yet  born  this  second,  gone  the  next; 

A  prisoner  oft  held,  but  still 
Through  bolts  and  bars  I  pass  at  will. 

Unlighted  rambling  round  the  earth, 
My  path  obstructed,  light  has  birth. 

A  faithful  friend  I  am  to  man, 
But  turn  and  rend  him  when  I  can. 

I  soothe  his  aches  and  ease  his  pain, 
Then  twist  him  into  knots  again. 

I  come  to  bless  his  house  and  town, 
And  tear  his  stoutest  buildings  down. 

Sans  hands  I  hold,  sans  feet  I  go, 
With  messages  for  friend  and  foe. 

I  bear  man's  burdens,  share  his  woes, 
And  vanish, — whither  no  man  knows. 


'NOTE:    Electricity. 


102 


A  FAIR  IDYL* 

The  Fair  is  ended  and  gone; 
And  he  of  the  wide  open  mouth 
And  inquisitive  turn  of  the  eye 
No  longer  perambulates 
Through  its  halls. 

The  beau, 

That  erst  did  arrogate 

Himself,  with  damsel  clinging, 

Like  faithful  mustard-plaster 

Unto  his  side — the  twain 

Exciting  the  look  of  derision 

As  they  munched  the  succulent  ball 

Of  pop-corn — the  beau  and  his  glory 

Are  past. 

The  man  of  transcendent  beauty 
Hath  taken  his  leather  medal, 
And  doth  hide  his  diminished  head 
'Neath  his  drooping  wing. 


*NOTE:  These  lines  were  written  and  published  in  1877; 
— many  years  before  free  verse  was  dreamed  of  as  a  poetic 
fad  or  that  designation  had  entered  the  thought  of  easy 
going  writers.  In  the  absence  of  some  prior  claim  these 
lines  must  stand,  therefore,  as  the  premier  effort  in  a  very 
indifferent  sort  of  versification. 


103 


He  of  the  swelling  larynx, 

With  inborn  desire  to  proclaim 

His  gift  of  oratory, 

Hath  spoken.    And  lo!  the  trees 

Standing  in  boxes  and  tubs; — 

The  mellow  fruit  on  the  tables, 

The  stoves  with  their  pots  and  kettles, 

The  displays  of  agriculture, 

And  the  milliners'  hats  and  bonnets 

Were  overawed  as  they  listened. 

The  constituted  committee 

Hath  come,  puffed  up  with  importance, 

To  domineer  as  they  listed 

O'er  the  coops  all  saw-dust  littered. 

The  turkey-cocks  and  the  roosters 

They  did  outdo  in  strutting, 

And,  moved  by  a  sense  of  justice, 

Awarded  the  wide  blue  ribbon 

Unto  themselves. 

Even  so, 

The  judges  of  wines  and  brandies 

With  fortitude  amazing, 

Tasted  the  unctuous  samples, 

And  passed  to  their  friends  for  judgment, 

And  drained  the  dark  colored  bottles, 

And  forgot  to  award  the  prizes. 


104 


And  the  fat  and  fretful  babies, 
Squeezed  to  infantile  pomatum 
In  the  crowd  of  fierce  spectators, 
Who  trampled  on  each  other 
In  a  vain  attempt  to  see  them; — 
Oh,  the  babies,  the  dear  babies, 
Gone  to  swell  the  angel  chorus, 
Crushed  and  jammed  to  baby-butter! 
Only  one  from  all  that  concourse — 
He  the  plump  Jose  Maria, — 
Left  to  tell  the  mournful  story, 
And  to  occupy  the  buggy. 

Join  me,  then,  oh,  suffering  brother, 
In  my  chuckled  satisfaction, — 
In  my  song  of  loud  rejoicing, — 
In  my  shout  of  exultation, 
That  at  last  the  Fair  is  over. 


CHINESE  WEDLOCK 

Ah  Sang,  thou  art  wed  to  the  beauty,  Loo  Yow; — 

To  love  and  to  cherish  you  solemnly  vow; 

To  love  and  to  cherish  forever  and  aye, 

Nor  let  aught  but  a  Court  put  the  woman  away. 

You'll  be  true  to  this  vow,  Sang,  I'm  confident  of  it; 

And  not  sell  till  you're  sure  of  a  reasonable  profit. 


105 


LINES 
To  Major  E.  W.t  as  a  tribute  to  his  free  verse  proclivities 

Oh,  Poetaster  by  the  swashing  sea, 

I  can't  help  thinking  about  your  poetry, 

And  how  you  sit  in  the  Flying  Fish 

Cottage  by  the  swashing-swish, 

And  devote  your  leisure  moments  to 

Writing  fanciful  too-ral-loo; 

While  the  people  who  read  it  are  far  away, — 

Twenty  miles,  or  perhaps  a  fraction  over,  from 

Long  Beach  Bay. 

Oh,  swashing  Poetaster  by  the  swish, 
I  laugh  me  in  my  sleeve,  and  often  wish 
That  you  could  see  the  writhing  multitude 
That  flout  your  fullograms  in  angry  mood; — 
And  they  are  twenty  miles  away.     It  tickles 
My  fancy  to  think  of  it.    Pickles! 

Oh,  virile  rhymster  of  the  vasty  slush, 

It  calms  my  troubled  soul  to  hear  the  gush 

Of  the  Pacific  Ocean  at  Long  Beach 

Go  sousing  through  your  metricated  speech, 

And  salting  it  most  effectually; — 

Like  pork  in  the  barrel.    Actually, 

It  does.    While  the  flying  fish  on  top 

Of  your  cottage  is  utterly  oblivious.    (Full  stop.) 


106 


Oh,  earnest  trifler  of  the  tum-te-tum, 

A  weary  pilgrim  to  thy  shrine  I  come, 

And  pull  me  off  the  shoes  from  off  my  feet, 

And  go  barefooted  up  and  down  the  street, 

And  walk  upon  the  sands  in  my  bathing  suit 

And  feel  very  melancholy  to  boot! 

I  can't  very  well  describe  my  unfortunate  condition, 

So  I  think  I'll  go  to  live  at  San  Gabriel  Mission! 

LA  GRIPPE 

I've  got  a  most  distressing  cold, 

Or  something  in  my  head,  Sir; 
My  misery  simply  can't  be  told, — 

I  ought  to  be  in  bed,  Sir; 
And  if  it  lasts  another  day, 

Without  some  sort  of  check,  Sir, 
I'll  sneeze  my  blasted  brains  away, 

Or  dislocate  my  neck,  Sir. 

This  Russian  influenza 
Will  drive  us  all  to  frenzy; — 
Ah-chee,  ah-choo!    Ah-ch, — ach-chee! 
This  Russian  influenza! 

It's  something  like  neuralgia, 

And  something  like  bronchitis; — 
Like  asthma,  whooping-cough,  catarrh, — 

A  touch  of  laryngitis. 
It's  everything  that's  bad,  by  turns, 

And  nothing  very  nice,  Sir; — 
All  down  my  spinal  cord  it  burns, 

And  then  it's  cold  as  ice,  Sir. 
107 


I  swallowed  forty  quinine  pills, 

But  got  no  better  fast,  Sir; — 
Tried  physic,  ipecac  and  squills, 

And  then  a  mustard  plaster. 
I've  soaked  my  feet  in  scalding  lye, 

And  taken  a  hot  toddy, 
And  yet  the  pains  shoot  constantly 

All  through  my  head  and  body. 

My  wife  is  troubled  just  the  same, 

And  likewise  my  wife's  mother; 
And  all  the  people  in  the  house 

Are  sneezing  at  each  other. 
It's  spreading  'mongst  the  neighbors,  too, 

And  sadly  'twill  afflict  'em, 
Don't  laugh  at  me,  (Ah-chee,  ah-choo,) 

For  you're  a  coming  victim! 

This  Russian  influenza. 

PREMEDITATED  POVERTY 

Hiram's  trousers  had  a  recent  rent 

Yawning  wide  athwart  the  starboard  knee. 

Sarah  offered  aid  with  good  intent, 

But  the  yawn  continued  still  to  be; 
"For,"  said  Hiram,  "Don't  you  see 
"If  I  wear  a  patch  across  my  knee, 
"Neighbors  all  will  think  that  it's  a  pre- 
"Meditated  sign  of  poverty? 
"While,  with  just  a  rip  across  my  knee, 
"They  will  only  notice  it  to  see 
"That  the  thing  has  recently  been  rent; — 
"Think  it  but  the  moment's  accident." 
108 


So  the  aid  that  Sarah  would  have  lent 
To  the  jagged  gape  on  Hiram's  knee, 

Went  for  naught; — her  kindness  was  misspent; 
And  the  neighbors  now  all  clearly  see 

Ample  cause  for  Hiram's  discontent; 
For  the  gossips,  one  and  all,  agree 
That  the  frazzled  tear  across  his  knee 
Is  mark  of  Sarah's  laziness,  and  he 
Were  even  glad, — just  suited  to  a  T — 
If  Sarah  would  throw  up  the  job  and  flee 
To  mend  some  other  fellow's  ragged  knee. 

Next  time  he  had  a  rent  across  the  knee, 
He  wore  a  patch  with  due  humility; 
Then  all  his  kindly  neighbors  did  agree 
That  he  was  going  straight  to  bankruptcy; 
And  that  the  burden  of  his  blasted  life 
Was  having  such  a  worthless,  lazy  wife. 

Moral 


He  who  seeks  to  steer  his  barque 

In  any  wise 

By  others'  eyes, 
Is  very  apt  to  miss  his  mark. 

Who  goes  in  shabby  coat  or  hat 

On  false  pretense, 
Is  apt  to  do  his  antic  at 

His  wife's  expense. 

109 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  WALTER 

Which  I  wish  to  re-say, 

As  I  said  it  before, 
That,  for  giving  away 

His  cash  to  the  poor, 
Friend  Walter  is  summat  peculiar; — 

Peculiar  he  is,  and  no  more. 

This  'ere  man,  Robert  Stokes, — 

Familiar  called  Bob, — 
Is  the  fellow  that  folks 

Says  was  into  the  job. 
(And  I  rise  to  explain  that  this  Robert 

Is  only  a  darkey  called  Bob.) 

It  was  fruit  for  the  kid, 

In  a  basket  he  took; — 
When  the  favor  he  did, 

There  was  guile  in  his  look; 
And  he  'lowed  that  the  circus  was  coming, 

In  a  way  that  could  not  be  mistook. 

This  'ere  Robert,  you  know, 

Is  from  Old  Alabam, 
And  Friend  Walter  also; — 

They  both  hail  from  the  same — 
And  the  ties  existing  between  them 

I'm  bashful  to  name. 


110 


And  when  Robert  implied 

His  fond  wish  for  the  show, 

(Which  it  can't  be  denied 
Meant   a  purpose  to  go,) 

Friend  Walter  just  pulled  out  two  dollars 
Without  any  further  to-do. 

And  he  said:     "Robert,  yes; 

It's  a-coming,  that's  true; 
And  I'm  bound  to  confess 
I've  a  liking  for  you; 
But  mind,  Bob,  there  is  an  election, 
And  that's  coming,  too." 

Which  I  wish  to  re-say, 

As  I  said  it  before, 
That,  for  giving  away 

His  cash  to  the  poor, 
Friend  Walter  is  summat  peculiar; — 

Peculiar  he  is, — and  no  more. 


QUIPS  AND  EPIGRAMS 
To  Gyp,  a  Singing  Dog 

All  hail,  sweet  singer,  dog  of  happy  mood, 
That  hath  the  soul  of  oriole  or  lark, 

Yet  warblest  not  within  the  leafy  wood, 
But  in  the  bark. 

Ill 


To  a  Unitarian  Pastor 

You  say,  my  reverend  sir,  there  is  no  hell; 
That,  live  we  here  however  good  or  ill, 
A  gracious  God  at  last  will  count  it  well, 
And  take  us  into  Paradise  pell-mell, 

Forgiven. 

Now  if  this  be  the  case,  you'll  please  to  say 
Who  then  will  save  us  from  your  Unita- 

Rian  Heaven. 


To  an  Old  Style  Preacher 

Lo,  as  we  hear  your  words  of  holy  wrath, 
We  scent  the  fire  and  brimstone  on  your  breath; 
We  see  the  burning  sinner  in  the  glare; — 
Behold  your  devils  dancing  on  the  air; — 
Thus  pandemonium  which  men  fear  so  much, 
Looms  forth,  responsive  to  your  magic  touch. 
Now,  when  we  die,  and  all  to  hell  repair, 
I  think,  my  reverend  sir,  we'll  need  you  there; 
For,  on  that  day  of  threatened  woe  and  worrit, 
What  use  for  brimstone,  with  no  one  to  stir  it? 


To  a  Justice  of  the  Peace 
111  fares  the  man  who  breaks  the  law, 

And  comes  within  your  clutches; 
Hard  lines  of  punishment  you  draw 

On  all  the  luckless  wretches; 
The  misery  which  your  words  entail 

Is  far  beyond  conjecture; 
For  he  who  isn't  sent  to  jail 

Must  fall  before  your  lecture. 

112 


SMITH'S  PROFITEERING 

He  looked  about  one  summer  day, 
Did  Mr.  Smith  of  San  Jose, 
And  he  noted  the  weather  warm  and  dry, 
(The  barometer  standing  tolerably  high,) 
And  never  a  sign  of  rain  in  the  sky. 

He  found  the  people  in  very  ill  grace, — 

Short  in  pocket  and  long  of  face — 

Horribly  grumpy — wretchedly  blue, 

Bewailing  the  drouth  they  had  just  come  through, 

And  looking  askance  at  more  drouth  in  view. 

The  alfillerilla,  rank  and  tall 

In  times  gone  past  without  recall, 

Had  made  a  most  unfortunate  fall 

First  to  very  short  grass,  then  to  no  grass  at  all, 

And  the  fact  no  longer  could  be  ignored 

That  the  ground  was  about  as  bare  as  a  board. 

"Hence,"  said  Mr.  Smith  of  San  Jose, 

"I  think  there's  a  good  speculation  in  hay." 

The  weather  continued  warm  and  dry, 
And  the  second  drouth  was  drawing  nigh, 
And  things  that  were  bad  enough  before 
Grew  worse  and  worse,  and  ever  more 
Increased  the  want  and  diminished  the  store. 


113 


Smith  saw  that  cattle  were  greatly  in  need 
Of  the  new  season's  grass  or  the  old  season's  feed, 
And  the  sheep,  all  starved  and  ragged  and  poor, 
Were  dropping  dead  by  the  dozen  and  score; 
And  he  pondered  these  matters  o'er  and  o'er. 

And  it  all  appeared  to  him  most  plain 

That  with  the  certain  failure  of  rain, 

The  farmers'  stacks  couldn't  stand  the  strain; 

He  was  sure  it  would  come  about  by  and  by, 

The  supply  would  run  low  and  the  price  would  run  high. 

"Hence,"  said  Mr.  Smith  of  San  Jose, 
"I'm  sure  there's  a  fine  speculation  in  hay." 

And  when  Mr.  Smith  thus  made  it  appear 
That  the  people  were  in  for  another  dry  year, 
And  had  settled  it  all  to  his  own  satisfaction, 
The  hay  speculation  had  such  an  attraction 
That  he  backed  his  opinions  with  vigorous  action. 

He  went  into  market  without  more  delay 

And  devoted  himself  to  the  purchase  of  hay; 

Invited  all  holders  to  give  him  a  call, 

And  with  money  in  hand  bought  from  each  and  from  all. 

The  farmer  who'd  sell,  Smith  did  never  turn  back, 

But  asked  him  his  price,  and  called  it  a  whack, 

And  gathered  in  hay  by  the  bale  and  the  stack. 


114 


There  was  no  hesitation  when  once  he'd  begun, 
And  his  volume  of  fodder  increased  like  fun, 
To  eighteen  hundred  and  some  odd  ton, — 
Between  what  he'd  bought  and  what  he'd  engaged, 
And  Smith's  fond  ambition  at  last  was  assuaged. 

"And  now,"  said  Smith  of  San  Jose, 
"I've  got  a  lead-pipe  cinch  on  hay." 

Then  he  turned  to  and  hoped  with  might  and  main 
That  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  would  not  send  rain; 
That  the  drouth  might  prevail,  and  the  year  again 
Bring  naught  but  want  and  woe  in  its  train, 
And  shattered  fortunes  and  hopes  all  in  vain, 
That  the  general  loss  might  be  his  gain. 

"Because,"  said  Smith  of  San  Jose, 

"I've  simply  got  them  all  euchered  on  hay." 

But  alas!   for  the  man  who  sometimes  depends 
On  fickle  Nature  to  work  his  ends. 
Alas!  for  the  man  who  seeks  to  prey 
On  his  fellows'  misfortune, — even  in  hay. 
The  purpose  he  sought  was  not  attained, 
The  profits  he  coveted  never  were  gained, 
For  lo!  on  a  fateful  day, — it  rained. 

And  that  rain  was  followed  by  many  rains, 
And  feed  all  over  the  hills  and  plains 
Sprang  up  and  flourished,  rank  and  tall, 
And  the  cattle  were  fed  and  grew  fat  withal, 
And  the  people  laughed  and  were  hearty  at  that, 
And  Smith's  great  hay  speculation  fell  flat. 
115 


THE  SOPHIST'S  MAXIM* 

Who  seeks  to  win  poetic  fame, 
Who  would  immortalize  his  name, 
Who'd  gain  with  ease  life's  doubtful  game, 
Should  think  of  this;  nor  scornful  pass  it — 
Pecunia  equam  ire  facit. 

Who  would  forsake  his  humble  nook, 
Upon  the  busy  world  to  look, 
To  see  her  sights  and  read  her  book, 
Should  study  this,  nor  idly  pass  it: — 
Pecunia  equam  ire  facit. 

Who  seeks  for  friends  to  bend  the  knee, — 
Be  constant  in  prosperity, 
And  when  misfortune  comes,  to  flee — 
Should  ponder  this  nor  ever  pass  it: — 
Pecunia  equam  ire  facit. 

And  he  who'd  go  where  Christians  meet, 
Their  prayers  and  sermons  to  repeat, 
If  he  would  occupy  a  seat 

'Mongst  wealth  and  those  who  do  amass  it, 
Should  heed  this  truth,  nor  rashly  pass  it, 
Pecunia  equam  ire  facit' 


*NOTE:  This  was  the  first  writing  of  the  author's  to  see  the  light  of  print.  It  was 
written  and  published  when  he  was  about  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age,  having  been 
given  to  the  editor  of  a  local  newspaper  by  a  yound  friend,  without  the  writer's  knowl 
edge.  The  refrain  should  read,  "Money  makes  the  mare  go,"  but  the  Latin  is  not 
vouched  for. 


116 


THE  WONDERFUL  DIPLOMAT 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  Diplomat 
(Let  his  praises  be  everywhere  sounded) 

Who  puzzled  one-half  of  the  civilized  world, 
And  the  other  half  dumbfounded? 

His  methods  confusing  human  kind, 

His  purposes  past  invention; 
The  wisest  could  never  fathom  his  mind, 

Or  guess  at  his  intention. 

No  other  so  subtle  in  matters  of  state, 
No  other  so  crafty  and  wary, 

He  juggled  with  prince  and  potentate, 
And  plenipotentiary. 

And  when  this  Diplomat  came  to  die, 
By  loving  friends  surrounded, 

He  solved  at  last  the  mystery 

That  had  all  the  world  confounded; 

And  the  secret  of  his  art,  forsooth, 

Left  them  all  the  more  astounded; 

He  had  always  told  the  simple  truth, 
And  thus  had  the  world  confounded. 


117 


REFORM-A  BALLAD 

There  was  old  Grove  Jackson, — we  knew  him  first-rate 
When  the  Southern  Pacific  was  taking  the  freight, 
And  paying  its  cohorts  to  manage  the  State. 

A  faithful  old  servitor  truly  was  Grove, 
Obeying  the  orders  that  came  from  above, 
And  working  for  lucre  as  well  as  for  love; — 

A  faithful  old  henchman  as  ever  was  seen, 
In  season  and  out,  and  sometimes  between, 
A-serving  the  Southern  Pacific  machine. 

But  the  time  came  at  last  when  the  great  Collis  P. 
Found  that  business  and  politics  didn't  agree; 
"And  I  think  we  had  better  get  out,"  said  he; — 

"Out  of  business  or  politics, — one  or  the  other — 
While  the  hauling  pays  well,  the  machine  it  is  rather 
Expensive,  and  always  a  drag  and  a  bother." 

But  how  to  get  out; — it  wasn't  so  plain, 
With  an  army  of  henchmen  still  to  maintain, 
And  a  balance  of  loss,  maybe,  over  the  gain. 

For  'twas  clear  to  the  mind  of  the  very  astute 

That  politics  being  their  favorite  suite, 

They  might  play  t'  other  way,  if  sorely  put  to  't. 

Thus,  turning  the  problem  abaft  and  abeam, 
And  finding  no  other  way  sure,  it  would  seem, 
Collis  hit  on  this  very  ingenious  scheme: 

118 


Maybe  Herrin  proposed  it;— I  sure  cannot  say, 
But  they  turned  it  about  to  approach  t'  other  way, 
And  left  the  trump  card  for  the  people  to  play. 

"There  is  Hiram,— Grove's  son; — he  is  simply  a  charmer, 
Tricked  out  with  his  sword  and  his  buckler  and  armor; 
Knight  Errant  is  he,  and  a  noble  reformer. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Hiram?     We'll  let  him  march  out 
With  banner  and  bugle  and  fanfare  and  shout, 
And  put  our  discomfited  army  to  rout; 

'  Tis  the  only  safe  way:   when  the  fracas  is  o'er 
We'll  be  better  protected  than  ever  before, 
And  our  troublesome  army  will  trouble  no  more." 

So  Hiram  marched  forth  to  a  victory  sure, 

And  marshalled  his  forces,  the  good  and  the  pure, 

And  led  them  right  into  Boss  Herrin's  fine  lure. 

And  the  army  that  Collis  was  troubled  about, 
Horse,  foot  and  dragoons,  suffered  panic  and  rout; 
For  Hiram,  the  Noble,  he  sure  kicked  them  out. 

And  Hiram,  installed  in  the  Governor's  chair. 
Fixed  things  so  the  railroad  was  sure  of  its  share, 
And  built  a  machine  of  his  own  past  compare. 

And  the  burden  was  shifted,  'tis  fair  to  relate; — 

The  machine  moves  along  at  its  merry  old  gait, 

With  the  odds  in  its  favor:  The  State  pays  the  freight. 


119 


IN  SOBER  VERSE 


THE  HESPERIDES 

Where  the  sun  goeth  down  in  the  West, 
Where  the  spirits  of  earth  find  rest, 
In  the  Occident-land  of  the  blest, 

There  dwell  the  Hesperides. 
They  are  daughters  of  Erebus,  Night, 
In  vestments  of  shadow  bedight, 
And  they  know  not  the  Day  with  his  light 

The  Sisters  Hesperides. 
They  are  guarding  the  apples  of  gold — 
Earth's  gift  to  fond  Hera  of  old, 
And  their  vigils  forever  they  hold 

O'er  the  fruit-laden  trees. 
And  the  spirits  of  Earth  and  Air 
Know  not  that  the  Sisters  are  there 
Or  the  trees  with  their  fruitage  so  rare 

In  that  Occident-land  of  Peace. 

For  darkness  is  over  them  thrown; 
Night  claimeth  the  fruit  for  his  own; — 
Well  he  guardeth  the  Great  Unknown, 
With  his  shades,  the  Hesperides. 

Oh,  glorious  land  of  the  west! 
Oh,  land  I  hold  dearest  and  best! 
Elysium  is  not  then  possesst 

Of  fruits  so  enchanting  as  these. 


123 


Thy  groves  that  are  ever  in  sight 
Bear  apples  of  gold  not  less  bright, 
And  their  guardians  are  angels  of  light, 
Obeying  the  day's  decrees. 

Blest  mortals  who  there  do  abide! 
Of  the  fruit  that  no  shadows  hide 
They  may  eat  and  be  satisfied, 
Nor  fear  the  Hesperides. 


THE  NEWSBOY 

Compliments  of  The  "Times'"  Carriers  to  its  Patrons,  New  Years' 
Day,  1885. 

I  like  the  little  Waif  that  runs  the  streets, 
Bearing,  'neath  bended  arm  his  stock  in  trade. 
I  like  to  hear  his  shout,  and  see  anon 
The  eager  face  upturned.    Ragged  and  rough 
May  be  this  urchin  of  the  gutter  bred; — 
Ragged  and  rough,  in  manners  as  in  dress; 
But,  for  the  better  self, — the  heart  within, 
That  one  doth  seldom  read, — I  like  him  still. 

Morning  pipers.     Times  and  Herald; 
Two  for  a  dime. 


124 


Who  knows  the  dire  necessity  that  waits 
Upon  the  proceeds  of  the  newsboy's  trade? 
The  mother,  mayhap,  with  her  babe  at  breast;— 
The  ragged  little  brothers,  sisters, — all 
Deserted  by  the  sot  that  dragged  them  down. 
But  for  the  burden  lightly  taken  up 
By  this  young  Arab,  hunger  might  be  theirs. 

Morning  pipers.     Daily  Times,  Sir? 
Only  five  cents. 

Astir  betimes,  ere  half  the  town's  awake, — 

Rising  from  scanty  bed  to  scanty  fare; — 

Prompt  at  his  post  of  duty,  come  what  may, 

And  serving  through  all  weathers, — satisfied 

If  only  by  his  toil  he  gather  in 

A  meager  pittance, — Who  shall  dare  to  say 

There  is  not  true  nobility  of  soul 

In  such  endeavor?     Honor  then  the  lad. 

Quick  in  his  rivalry, — an  eye  for  gain — 
Shrewd  as  the  shrewdest — ever  glib  of  speech — 
These  his  accomplishments  so  early  gained, 
So  oft  reviewed  in  his  one  school, — the  street. 
What  wonder  then,  that  pupil  apt  as  he, 
Cast  on  the  world  before  his  time,  should  learn 
Too  much  of  ill!     Behold  the  reflex  here 
Of  public  morals.     Satire  on  us  all! 

Times  or  Herald.     Morning  pipers. 
Only  five  cents. 


125 


And  still  I  praise  him,  for  the  good  is  more. 
His  faults  the  faults  of  others;  but  his  own 
The  manly  virtues  of  his  struggling  life. 
Thus,  ever  strong  of  will  and  light  of  heart, 
He  plies  his  humble  calling; — honors  it, 
And  giveth  promise  for  the  future  man. 
Ho!    Newsboy,  kneel,  and  thou  shalt  knighted  be, 
My  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  Daily  Press. 

Daily  pipers. 


THE  BARD'S  APPEAL* 

When  scribbling  fools  assume  poetic  sway, 
When  Mammon  rules  o'er  Poesy  the  day, 
When  stupid  blockheads  soar  to  skies  unknown, 
And  scribble  lovers'  ditties  all  their  own, 
What  marvel  that  we  turn  with  sore  disgust 
From  where  the  Muse  lies  prostrate  in  the  dust! 

A  Scott  once  sang  the  patriot's  worth;  but  now 
His  words  are  used  in  burlesque  at  the  show. 
Moore  breathed  of  love;  and  now  his  deathless  line, 
Corrupted,  glares  upon  a  merchant's  sign. 
The  star  of  Young  that  pinned  the  mantle  'round 
The  earth  in  slumber  wrapt,  is  gaily  found 
In  plodding  service  of  a  notion  store 
Where  pins,  indeed,  are  sold  and  many  more 
Delightful  things  that  Adam  never  wore. 


*NOTE:    Verses  of  boyhood. 

126 


Oh,  spare  the  Muse,  ye  senseless  mongers  all 
Who  seek  your  petty  profits  in  her  fall. 
And  spare  her  modesty,  ye  groveling  men 
Who  for  a  baser  motive  wield  the  pen. 
Let  ribald  jest  and  vulgar  tale  be  told 
In  other  than  the  impassioned  strains  of  old 
That  mounted  with  a  bright  unsullied  fire 
From  Homer's  first  inspired,  first  honored  lyre. 

The  snow  so  pure  that  falls  from  fleecy  cloud, 
When  'tis  downtrodden  by  the  thronging  crowd, 
Becomes,  beneath  their  all-corrupting  feet, 
The  foulest  rubbish  on  the  dirty  street. 


A  PILLOW  FIGHT 

It  was  a  merry  rout.     The  little  ones, 
Robed  in  their  nighties,  scurried  into  bed, 
And  cuddled  down,  as  if  to  sleep  addressed; 
But  scarce  they  had  the  covers  snugly  drawn, 
When  up  an  imp  of  mischief  popped  his  head, 
And,  to  his  challenge  (all  in  pantomime) 
Another  and  another.     With  half  an  eye 
For  bed-time  pranks  of  children,  one  could  see 
Trouble  was  brewing; — mayhap  not  for  these, 
But  for  the  tired  mother,  who  must  come, 
And  with  asperity,  command  the  peace. 


127 


It  was  a  pillow-fight,  and  back  and  forth 
The  harmless  missiles  flew.    Waxing  warm, 
In  thickest  of  the  fray,  a  warrior  bold 
Crept  to  a  close  engagement,  and  with  might 
Belabored  his  antagonist.    Alack! 
That  pillows  were  not  made  for  such  a  strife! 
The  parting  stitches  cried  peccaci  first; — 
Then  marshalled  forth  a  million  flags  of  truce. 
Patron  of  all  the  geese  untimely  plucked 
To  furnish  men  a  guerdon  of  repose, 
How  is  thy  spirit  troubled!    Lo,  the  air 
Is  thick  with  feathers,  fluttering  in  dismay! 

A  reckless  fight  and  frolic,  fashioned  forth 
Thue  to  the  life  and  action.    How  is  this? 
All  an  illusion?     Saw  we  not  the  act? 
Only  a  picture?    The  kinetocope? 
Oh,  Wizard,  Edison!    And  is  it  thus 
Thou  playest  on  our  senses  to  impose 
The  conjured  antics  of  a  modern  Puck? 

Behold,  we  look  again,  and  to  our  eyes 
The  scene  of  turmoil  comes,  the  feathers  fly; 
But,  by  reversal  of  the  strange  device, 
The  downy  cloud  resolves;  the  air  is  cleared, 
And  in  its  proper  place  each  feather  drops; 
The  rended  stitches  mend;  the  pillow's  whole; 
And  tracing  back  the  conflict  to  the  first, 
The  impish  heads  fall  back,  and  are  at  rest. 


128 


Oh,  Edison,  thou  Wizard,  truly  called, 
Twice  o'er  thou  dost  confound  and  mystify; 
For  Puck,  in  all  his  wanderings  on  the  earth, 
Could  ne'er  undo  the  mischief  he  had  wrought! 
Now,  we  implore  thee  (if  within  thee  lies,) 
Make  this  illusion  real  for  us  all; 
Give  us  reversal  of  the  trend  of  time; — 
Return  our  precious  hopes  that  flew  away, 
Rebind  the  sundered  stitches  of  our  lives, 
And  bring  our  heads  anon  to  childhood's  rest. 


August  18,  1899. 


TO  THE  SENATE 

How  long,  oh,  Conscript  Fathers,  will  you  stand, 
In  partisan  contention,  blinded,  strife, 

The  world  awaiting  anxiously  at  hand 

And  Human  Freedom  gasping  for  its  life? 

Was't  all  in  vain  we  poured  our  billions  in 
To  meet  the  waste  of  tyranny  and  greed? 

Was't  just  a  joke  we  sent  two  million  men 
To  stay  a  bloody  tyrant  from  his  deed? 

Was  it  for  this  our  brothers  and  our  sons, 

That  heard  the  call  and  took  the  patriot's  chance, 

Fought  the  stern  issue  through  and  left  their  bones 

Beneath  the  hell-blown  wastes  of  northern  France? 


129 


What  serves  it  then  that  they  have  nobly  wrought 
If  craven  cowards,  sitting  in  command, 

May  desecrate  the  flag  for  which  they  fought, 

And  snatch  the  trophy  from  the  victor's  hand? 

Oh,  Conscript  Fathers,  hesitate  no  more; 

Confirm  the  pledge  we  gave  the  world  when  we 
Sent  out  our  armies  to  the  farther  shore, 

And  sent  our  ships  to  clear  the  troubled  sea. 

Make  good  the  pledge  we  gave  in  tears  and  blood, 
And  save  the  nation  from  this  dire  disgrace. 

Make  good  the  pledge  we  gave  our  friends  who  stood 
Beside  us  in  that  awful  slaughter  place. 

Give  to  the  peoples  perishing  afar 

The  guerdon  we  have  cherished  from  our  birth; 
Give  them  surcease  from  tyranny  and  war, 

That  freedom  may  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

December  30,  1919 

THE  DYING  ORANGE  TREE 

Sore  wounded  at  its  root,  and  sensing  near 
That  dissolution,  or  that  change  of  form 
That  men  call  death,  the  orange  tree  puts  forth 
A  wealth  of  bloom.    Self -shrouded  all  in  white, 
It  looks  in  beauty  on  the  passing  world, 
Flinging  its  censored  perfume  to  the  air; 
And,  with  this  benediction,  yields  its  life. 
It  must  be  sweet  to  die  so  graciously. 

130 


MARY  TO  DODE 

Through  the  rift  of  five-and-forty  years, 
Look  thine  eyes  benignantly  on  me, 

And  the  lengthened  absence  but  endears 
All  my  tender  memories  of  thee. 

Little  of  the  girlish  mood  I  trace, 

Little  of  the  drollery  and  fun, 
But  a  sober,  love-enhallowed  face 

Speaks  the  task  of  duty  nobly  done. 

Ah,  the  magic  of  that  long  ago! 

Ah,  the  fancies  of  a  youth  sublime! 
Can  it  be  the  years  have  passed  us  so, 

And  our  fortunes  have  been  told  by  Time? 

Burdens  brought  he,  fraught  with  joy  and  pain, 
Cares  and  sorrows  brought  he,  but  to  bless; 

I  a  mother  with  her  happy  train, 
You  a  mother  to  the  motherless. 

Even  so  our  portions  are  assigned; 

Each  her  destiny  to  meet  apart; 
And  the  ties  of  youth  must  also  bind 

Riper  treasures  of  the  mother's  heart. 

So,  while  near  a  lifetime's  sped  away, 
Since  we  parted  lightly  on  the  road, 

So,  when  both  our  heads  are  grown  full  grey, 
Mary  I  am  still,  and  you  are  Dode. 


131 


When  we  stood  upon  the  farther  side, 
And  our  paths  divided  up  the  slope, 

Little  thought  we  then  to  sunder  wide, 
Meeting  only  in  the  vale  of  Hope. 

Be  that  happy  valley  far  or  near, — 

'Neath  the  hill,  or  past  the  sunset  West, 

Both  must  journey  thither  year  by  year; 

Shall  we  meet  again? — God  knoweth  best. 


THE  DROUTH 

There  came  a  long  rainless  season, 

When  it  seemed  that  the  land  was  accurst, 
And  the  streets  of  the  town  were  sere  and  brown, 

And  the  earth  was  agape  with  thirst. 

The  acres  of  wheat  and  of  barley 

That  had  promised  a  bounteous  yield, 

Were  shriveled  and  dry  when  only  half  high, 
And  all  a-drouth  was  the  field. 

The  grass  erst  so  lush  and  verdant, 

Skirting  the  valley  round, 
Was  crisp  and  dead  beneath  the  tread, 

And  matted  upon  the  ground. 

The  cattle  that  fed  on  the  hillside, 
The  flocks  that  roamed  the  plain, 

Fell  lank  and  lean  with  starvation, 
And  perished  for  want  of  rain. 

132 


The  springs  that  had  gushed  from  the  mountain 

Were  failing  one  by  one, 
And  the  river  that  ran  down  the  valley 

Could  scarcely  longer  run. 

A  fervid  sun  from  the  heavens 

Looked  down  with  pitiless  glare, 

Drinking  the  remnant  of  moisture, 
Heating  the  pulseless  air. 

The  earth  upon  the  roadway, 

Beneath  the  furrowing  tire 
Was  ground  and  winnowed  to  powder, 

Like  ashes  from  a  fire. 

There  was  dust  in  the  passing  zephyr, 

And  dust  in  every  breath, — 
Dust  covered  the  whole  land  over, 

Like  an  ashen  pall  of  death. 

And  there  came  a  wind  from  the  desert, 

Hot  as  a  furnace  blast, 
That  told  of  desolation, 

As  it  hurried,  scorching  past. 

Men  stared  in  each  others'  faces, 

And  troubled  looks  they  wore, 
For  the  people  all  were  stricken, — 

There  was  want  and  woe  before. 

********* 

One  morning  the  sunshine  came  not 

Athwart  the  eastern  sky, 
And  all  the  heavens  were  darkened, 

And  succor  came  from  on  high; 
133 


And  the  blessed  rain  descended, 
Pattering  on  roof  and  steeple, 

And  a  shout  of  exultation 

Went  up  from  all  the  people; 

And  they  said,  as  the  living  waters, 
Came  to  the  parched  plain, 

"All  hail  the  cloud  that  brings  it,— 
God's  mercy  in  the  rain." 


IN  EVIL  BRASS 

London,  Jan.  10,  1920. — An  Exchange  Telegraph  dispatch  from  Genoa  today  said  the 
liner  Princess  Mafalda  from  America,  had  struck  a  mine  and  sunk.  An  unconfirmed  report 
said  700  were  lost. 

"Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass."     'Tis  sad 
The  words  of  poet-prophet  are  fulfilled, 
And  poison  for  the  chalice  is  distilled. 

For  evil  genius  of  a  race  gone  mad, 

And  blind  to  right  or  wrong  or  good  or  bad, 

Hath  brewed  this  deadly  potion,  and  hath  willed 
That  enemy  and  friend  alike  be  killed, 

Now  and  in  time  to  come;  and  then  it  seeks  to  add 

The  malediction  of  blind  chance,  that  they 

Marked  for  destruction  shall  themselves  invite 

Their  untoward  fate,  and  even  then  obey 

The  mandate  of  their  murderers.  Such  ghoulish  spite 

Hath  nowhere  parallel.     In  evil  day 

And  evil  dark  they  wait  with  fiend's  delight. 


134 


"Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass."     Behold 

This  blind  destroyer,  filled  and  primed  and  charged 
With  fierce  explosive  and  projectiles  gorged, — 

Freighted  with  terror  and  with  woe  untold 

For  innocent  and  helpless,  young  and  old. 
(In  furnaces  of  hell  the  shell  was  forged, 
And  by  the  devil's  hand  'twill  be  discharged.) 

This  hath  the  maniac  set,  in  easy  hold 

Of  anchored  cable,  and  with  cunning  skill 

Brought  just  below  the  surface,  out  of  sight, 

And  left; — a  blind  reminder  of  the  German  will. 
This  hath  he  planted  in  the  roadstead,  quite 

In  line  with  passing  ships,  and  it  is  still 

In  evil-mannered  brass,  and  deadly — bright. 

"Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass."    And  lo! 

A  good  ship  sailing  from  another  shore, 

With  thousand  precious  lives  and  precious  store 
Of  succor  for  the  starving  people  who 
Hold  out  their  hands,  imploring.     Ah,  'twould  do 

A  world  of  good,  this  cargo  carried  o'er 

To  such;  and  with  the  will  to  carry  more, 
This  ship  returning  all  the  season  through. 
'Twould  do  a  world  of  good, — to  whom?     Ah,  well, 

To  any  needing  succor;  for  the  war, 
With  all  its  million  hates,  is  past.     And  let  us  tell 

The  Germans  that  we  hold  no  grudge, — no  bar 
To  future  friendship.     May —    The  hounds  of  hell 

Have  struck! — we  sink!— And  is  this  peace  or  war? 


135 


INGERSOLL 

By  the  old  women  of  the  twirling  flax 
Another  task  is  done;  the  thread  is  dipt, 
The  distaff  spent; — and  Ingersoll  is  dead. 
Say  that  the  ancient  servitors  of  Fate 
Have  wrought  exquisitely;  and  that  mankind, 
With  hands  uplifted,  hold  the  noble  skein. 

Twice  happy, — in  his  life  and  in  his  death. 
Unflecked  by  age,  unflawed  by  waning  powers, 
His  work  is  ended  as  it  was  begun, 
And  stands  to  human  freedom  consecrate; — 
Freedom  from  hoary  tyrants  of  the  past; 
Freedom  from  superstition  and  blind  creed; 
Freedom  from  bigotry  and  "Christian"  hate; 
Freedom  from  rack  and  fagot  of  the  mind. 
And  for  this  freedom  millions  call  him  blest? — 
Millions  will  bless  in  ages  yet  to  come. 

Ingersoll  is  dead.     But  what  is  death  to  him? 

Only  the  closing  of  a  well-read  book, 

Filled  with  good  thoughts  and  pleasant  memories. 

Mayhap  he  takes  another  from  the  shelf, 

And  in  a  fresher  and  a  happier  mood, 

Pursues  the  theme  beyond.     Mayhap  he 

Has  read  enough  already;  (who  can  tell?) 

And,  in  his  cushioned  ease,  sublime  repose, 

He  sleeps  and  sleeps  forever.     Either  wise 

Tis  well;  for  at  the  last  he  hath  the  better  part. 

Los  Angeles,  August  3,  1899. 

136 


IN  MEMORIAM 
Thomas  L.  O'Brien 

What  freak  of  Fate  to  send  our  soldier  back, 

Safe  from  war's  hazards  and  its  fierce  alarms! 

What  freak  to  follow  in  our  soldier's  track, 
And  snatch  him  after  from  our  very  armsl 

Ah,  but  this  game  is  hard  to  understand — 

This  hide-and-seek  with  Death,  the  elfish  shade- 

For  when  we  seek  we  find  him  not  at  hand, 

And  when  he  seeks  we  may  not  then  evade. 

At  duty's  earliest  call  he  answered  "Aye," 

And  when  the  need  was  greatest  he  was  there; 

Fighting  that  human  freedom  should  not  die, 
Daring  the  storm  as  only  freemen  dare. 

Steady  he  held  his  course  through  shot  and  shell, 
Over  the  top  and  through  the  tangled  wire, 

Meeting  the  gas  of  hate,  the  flames  of  hell, 

That  hissed  and  roared  the  deadly  German  ire. 

In  every  need  he  grandly  bore  his  part, 
To  duty  where  he  found  it  reconciled ; 

In  camp  and  hospital  a  woman's  heart, 
And  ways  as  gentle  as  a  little  child. 

Oh,  the  sublimity  of  such  a  lifel 

Not  less  the  hero  for  his  virtues  all. 

Stern  and  undaunted  on  the  field  of  strife, 
Yet  ready  aye  to  answer  Mercy's  call. 
137 


And  through  ten  thousand  dangers  unafraid 
Comes  back  our  soldier  to  his  happy  home, 

Seeking  the  peace  his  noble  deeds  have  made, 

Seeking  the  rest  and  comfort  that  should  come 

Ah,  but  this  scheme  is  hard  to  understand! 

The  hand  that  throws  the  shuttle  over,  under, 
Weaving  our  lives  together  strand  on  strand, 

Then  rudely  tears  the  woven  web  asunder. 

But  what  the  Weaver's  purpose  who  shall  tell? 

Perchance  a  better  pattern  He  would  gain. 
Register  joy,  for  He  hath  woven  well;* 

Register  joy,  our  hero's  free  from  pain. 


LITTLE  MESSENGER  OF  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

Oh,  little  messenger  of  Love  and  Death,  — 

Oh,  Babe,  thy  mother's  bitter,  bitter-sweet, 

Whose  soul  went  out  upon  her  parting  breath, 
Thy  soul  to  meet; 

Born  of  an  agony  without  assuage,  — 

Born  to  the  anguish  of  our  bitter  tears  ;  — 

Oh,  little  one,  is  this  thy  heritage,  — 
The  burden  of  thy  years? 


*NOTE:     A  message  to  his  wife  and  by  her  transmitted  to  the  Proximo  Club—  his  last 
word  to  fellow-members:     "Register  joy,  for  I  am  free  from  pain." 
July  22.  1899. 

138 


Where  is  the  heart  that  yearned  for  mother-right? 

The  breast  that  throbbed  to  greet  thy  natal  day? 
The  hands  outstretched,  appealing  in  the  night? 

Oh,  Baby,  where  are  they? 

What  knoweth  thou  of  grief  or  pain  or  care? 

What  knowest  thou  of  either  help  or  harm? 
Ah,  helpless  little  stranger,  nestling  there 

Upon  thy  nurse's  arm! 

Still  art  thou  held  in  ever  fond  embrace; — 

Still  art  thou  compassed  by  her  mother-thought; 

The  fleecy  draperies  of  thy  nesting  place 
Her  loving  fingers  wrought. 

Sleep,  Baby,  sleep  within  thy  cozy  nest; — 

Thine  the  long,  dreamless  sleep  of  babyhood; — 

And  never  know  the  heart-aches  and  the  rest, 
But  only  know  the  good. 


A  LOAD  OF  WOOD 

Accept  my  offering — a  farmer's  load — 
The  gnarled  roots  of  mesquite  and  of  sage, 
And  boles  of  mountain  oak,  torn  from  the  soil 
With  many  a  blow  of  mattock  and  of  axe. 

Such  uncouth  cordwood  is  in  vogue  with  us 
Who  dwell  upon  the  mountain  side,  where  erst 
The  scrubby  chaparral  was  all  the  growth 
That  Nature  in  a  niggard  humor  gave. 

139 


And  so,  in  clearing  off  my  foothills  farm, 
To  plant  thereon  the  orange  and  the  vine, 
That  better  grace  this  sunny  clime  of  ours, 
My  stock  of  fuel  grew.    And  I  have  come, 
With  wagon  clattering  down  the  rugged  way, 
And  I  have  brought  my  offering  as  the  rest, 
To  grace  your  wedding  day. 

Doubt  not,  my  friend, 

That  you  shall  find  the  fuel  sound  and  good; 
Quick  to  the  spark  and  ready  in  the  blaze, 
To  boil  the  pot  and  make  the  kettle  sing. 
Tis  likewise  fairly  suited  for  the  grate 
(Now  the  long  evenings  are  a  little  cool), 
Yielding  its  store  of  sunshine  to  the  room. 

For  every  use 

That  men  require,  in  reason,  of  a  fire 
I  do  commend  this  wood.    But  know  you  that, 
Beyond  the  values  here  enumerate, 
There's  magic  in  it?    Wonders  like  to  which 
The  sorcerers  of  the  East  did  never  work, 
Shall  it  perform  for  you. 

The  time  is  come 

When  to  yourself  you  take  the  heart's  best  choice, 
An  honored  wife.    And  you  have  chosen  well; 
For  she,  not  lacking  in  the  gentle  grace 
That  kindly  Nature  gives  to  womankind, 
Has  yet  the  subtler  charm  that  is  vouchsafed 
To  those  alone  of  true  and  generous  heart. 


140 


Bedight  with  gown  and  slippers,  sit  you  down 
(Your  love  beside  you),  and  this  magic  blaze 
Shall  send  a  thrill  of  rapture  through  your  soul 
That  kings  and  emperors  have  vainly  sought. 

Anon  the  simple  meal 

Her  hand  prepares  above  this  witching  flame 
Upon  your  palate  shall  approve  itself 
Than  nectar  and  ambrosia  sweeter  far. 
Into  the  embers  of  this  mystic  fire 
Gaze  you,  the  while  the  night  is  growing  old, 
And  (still  your  wife  beside  you)  there  shall  be 
Most  wondrous  visions  to  you  both  revealed. 

So,  pondering  on  these  things,  it  seemed  most  fit 
That  I,  your  boyhood's  chosen  friend,  and  still 
The  boon  companion  of  maturer  years, 
Should  your  Prometheus  be;  bringing  the  fire 
To  consecrate  your  home.     God  bless  you,  Fred! 
God  bless  your  hearthstone!     May  its  flame  of  joy 
Burn  on  unceasing,  like  the  Aztec  fires! 

POMONA 

And  now  Pomona  stretches  forth  her  hand 
To  bless  the  blossoms  of  our  sunny  land, 
And  they  are  fruitful,  lo!  an  hundred  fold; — 
The  orange,  yellow  as  the  minted  gold, 
The  lemon,  hinting  of  a  wealth  untold; 
The  prune,  the  fig;   the  olive  and  the  vine, 
Yielding  their  treasury  of  oil  and  wine; 
And  every  fruit  of  every  fertile  zone 
The  fair  Pomona  gives  us  for  our  own. 
141 


ON  THE  PHILIPPINE  WAR 

My  country,  (must  I  say  the  bitter  word?) 
Invader,  robber,  spoiler  of  the  weak! 
Would  that  mine  eyes  had  closed  on  earthly  sights, 
Would  that  mine  ears  were  dead  to  earthly  sounds, — 
Would  that  my  light  had  flickered  and  gone  out, 
Ere  I,  thy  lover,  uttered  this  reproach! 

My  country,  under  what  malignant  star 
That  overrules  the  good  intents  of  men, — 
That  stifles  Charity  with  hands  of  greed, — 
Turns  former  brother-love  to  hate,  and  o'er 
The  altar-stone  incites  the  crime  of  Cain, — 
Under  what  poison  Upas  hath  thou  slept, 
That  all  thy  better  purpose  is  o'erthrown, 
And  all  thy  fond  traditions  sunk  in  sin? 

My  country,  when  thy  sword  was  girded  on 
To  fight  for  the  oppressed  of  other  lands, — 
When  thou  went  forth  to  champion  the  right, 
And  bade  the  tyrant  stay  his  hand  and  end 
The  cursed  reign  of  slaughter  and  despair; — 
When  thou  essayed  to  snatch  the  weak  and  old 
From  blood  and  flame  and  torture, — thou  wert  strong;- 
Strong  in  thy  purpose,  strong  in  thought  and  deed; 
And  all  the  nations  wondered  at  thy  feats. 


142 


My  country,  in  the  tyrant's  name  and  stead, 
With  mocking  pretext  of  his  purchased  right, 
Against  the  weak  thou  art  thyself  arrayed! 
The  half -clad  native  fights  with  bow  and  spear; — 
Or  mayhap  with  the  gun  thou  gavest  him 
When  yesterday  thy  purposes  he  served! 
The  woman  fighting,  sinks  beside  her  mate! 
A  rabble  of  affrighted  island-folk, 
They  fall  like  swaths  of  barley  in  the  field, 
Mown  by  machines  of  war!     In  hopeless  strife 
They  shrink  before  thy  tempest-blast  of  hell, 
And  set  the  torch  to  that  they  call  their  home, 
And  fly  to  swamp  and  jungle  fastnesses. 

My  country,  oh,  the  cruel,  cruel  wrong 

That  slays  for  conquest  and  a  larger  mart! 

What  base  perversion  of  thy  giant  strength! 

What  prostitution  of  thy  Christian  creed! 

Is  this  thy  boasted  doctrine  that  upholds 

The  right  of  man,  self -governed,  to  be  free? 

Is  this  the  heritage  thou  did'st  receive 

From  those  that  toiled  and  bled  for  Freedom's  sake? 

Is  this  the  legacy  from  sire  to  son, — 

This  beggar's  remnant  of  a  brave  estate? 


143 


Powerless  to  crush  a  foe  that  will  not  mass, 
Powerless  to  follow  where  a  rabble  flies, 
Powerless  to  wreak  a  ruin  ready  wrought, 
Powerless  to  burn  the  ashes  of  dead  fires; — 
At  bay  before  a  wretched,  scattered  horde, 
Beset  by  tropic  heat,  besieged  by  Death, 
That  draws  his  cordon  with  a  fever-touch, 
And  posts  a  guard  of  Pestilence  by  night; — 
How  is  our  giant  shrunk  since  yesterday! 
How  is  our  mighty  champion  defied, 
And  set  at  naught  before  a  gaping  world! 

Whose  hand,  bethink  you,  champions  their  cause? 

Who  interposes  now  to  stay  the  wrong? 

Is  it  a  Power  that  exalts  the  weak, 

And  sets  them  up  the  mighty  to  confound? 

Oh,  Nation,  halting  on  the  fateful  verge 

Of  time  and  circumstance,  beware!    Beware! 

They  who  would  forge  the  links  of  servitude, 

E'en  for  the  poorest  of  God's  wandering  tribes, 

Make  fetters  for  themselves  and  for  their  kind. 

July  22,  1899. 


144 


PASADENA* 

Fair  Pasadena,  Crown  of  the  Valley, 
Diadem  set  on  the  brow  of  the  hills, 

Bright  was  the  promise  thy  christening  gave  thee, 
And  Fate,  thy  handmaiden,  fulfills. 

Fond  Pasadena,  never  another 

Hath  such  a  circlet  as  thine; — 
The  green  of  thy  groves  and  the  gold  of  thy  poppies, 

Wrought  by  a  Maker  divine. 

Loved  Pasadena,  rich  are  thy  treasures; — 
Amethyst,  garnet  and  ruby  so  red; — 

Thus  doth  thy  handmaid,  the  Noonday,  bedeck  thee, 
Showering  the  gems  on  thy  head. 

Sweet  Pasadena,  evening  approaches; — 
Topaz  and  agate  thy  crown  shall  beset. 

Night  cometh  after,  with  jewels  of  sorrow, — 
Jewels  of  onyx  and  jet. 

Sad  Pasadena,  this  admonition 

Teacheth  the  lesson  of  mortals  to  thee; — 
Lo!  there  is  never  a  crown  so  beseeming 

As  crown  of  humility. 

Bright  Pasadena,  yet  cometh  after 

Morning  in  diamonds  bedight; 
Cometh  the  Noonday  with  ruby  and  garnet, 

Cometh  the  onyx  Night. 


'NOTE:     Pasadena,  an  Indian  word  signifying  Crown  of  the  Valley. 

145 


Blest  Pasadena,  still  shall  a  glory 

Crown  thee  and  bless  thee  alway, 

Jewels  unnumbered  are  ever  thy  portion 
Brought  by  thy  servant,  Day. 


THE  GERMAN  "ti 
lt  sinks; — and  sinking  leaves  no  trace 
Upon  the  ocean's  placid  face. 
Down  in  the  middle  reaches  far 
Swims  the  leviathan  of  War, 
Seeking  its  prey;  and  if  it  rise 
To  use  its  periscopic  eyes, 
Like  some  black  monster  of  the  deep, 

It  tarries  but  a  breathing  rest, 
Then  back  within  the  ocean-keep 

It  dives  to  follow  up  the  quest. 

This  grotesque  Brobdignagian  fish  hath  scales 

Of  bolted  steel;  and  fins  indeed 
Beyond  the  wont  of  fishes'  fins  and  tails, 

With  million  times  their  speed; 
And  power  titanic  hath  it,  demon-made 

By  engines,  fiery-pulsed,  at  play; 
And  all  the  whirling  dervishes  arrayed 

Could  not  so  whirl  as  they. 


146 


And  in  the  fish's  belly  there  is  pent 

A  score  of  Jonahs; — not  impelled 
To  mission  of  the  Lord  when  recreant, 

But  rather  by  the  Devil  held 
In  leash  to  execute  his  cunning  plan, 

And,  bondsmen  in  a  service  strict, 
Inflict  a  fate  o'er  dire  for  fiend  or  man, 

And  tempt  the  fate  that  they  inflict. 

For  there,  within  the  close-drawn  hold,  like  case 

That's  water-buried — (it  would  seem 
No  part  of  earth  or  sea  or  air  or  space — 

The  nightmare  of  a  waking  dream) 
These  wretched  serfs,  in  reeking  sweat  and  grime, 

Toil  without  surcease,  knowing  well 
That  one  mischance  in  action  or  in  time 

Brings  death  with  agonies  of  hell. 

Yet  toil  they  on,  as  driven  toilers  can, 

With  grim  determination  bent 
To  wreak  such  death  upon  their  fellow-man 

Ere  they  to  Pluto's  realm  are  sent. 
0,  God,  is  this  thy  handiwork?     Is't  then 

A  balance  'twixt  our  gain  and  loss 
Since  thy  Peace  Messenger  was  sent  to  men, 

And  nailed  by  them  upon  the  cross? 


147 


It  sinks, — The  fiend  incarnate  hath  espied, 

By  his  devices  clever,  Argus-eyed, 
A  noble  ship  that  rides  in  sea  and  air, 

Unconscious  of  the  peril  skulking  there; — 
A  noble  ship,  replete  with  joy  and  life, 

Betimes  by  Charity  and  Mercy  sent 
To  soothe  the  carking  miseries  of  strife, 

And  save  a  wretched  people,  famine-spent. 

It  sinks; — and  from  its  evil  maw  spits  out 

A  missile  deadly,  sent  with  speed  and  force 

Of  chained  lightning. — Panic,  fear  and  rout 

Possess  the  good  ship  yonder,  and  her  course 

Is  not  to  harbor,  with  her  precious  freight, 

For  rescue  of  the  suffering  that  wait; 

But,  with  a  gaping  cavern  in  her  side, 

All  open  to  a  fierce  insetting  tide, 

She  plunges  downward  with  her  precious  hoard; — 

She  plunges  down  to  death  with  all  on  board. 

Oh,  evil  genious,  cast  in  human  form, 

That  sees  the  wreck  thy  dastard  will  hath  made; 
That  sees  the  panic  and  the  wild  alarm, 

And  hears  the  cry  of  children,  and  thine  aid 
Is  not  stretched  forth  to  succor; — evil  one, 

Thou  who  hath  murdered  Mercy,  thinkest  thou 
One  drop  shall  ever  cool  thy  parched  tongue, — 

One  touch  of  kindness  ease  thy  fevered  brow? 

It  sinks; — and  may  the  God  of  Pity  send 
The  craft  and  crew  to  their  appointed  end. 


148 


TO  A  SIERRA  PINE 

I  love  thy  restful  shade,  Sierra  Pine, 

Thy  drooping  boughs  and  feathery  knots  of  green 

That  net  a  fretted  canopy  above, 

And  let  the  welcome  sunshine  glimmer  through. 

Nor  glare  nor  gloom  beseem  thy  cunning  skill, 
That,  over  rocky  ledge  and  steep  and  crag, 
Weaveth  a  tracery  of  brown  and  gold 
To  deck  with  arabesques  the  mountain  side. 

Low,  nestling  at  thy  foot  as  if  to  crave 
An  equal  share  of  tenderness,  behold 
The  fronded  bracken  and  the  plumes  of  fern 
That  hold  their  meager  lodgment  in  the  cleft; 
And  lichens  gray,  o'erspanning  all  the  rocks, 
And  flowers  of  modest  hue  and  mosses  old, 
Creeping  and  creeping  till  thy  massive  trunk 
Is  half  encircled.     See  the  furzy  coat! 
How  it  o'erlaps  the  tree  against  the  north, 
Protecting  and  protected!     Nor  the  less 
Of  fond  devotion  seemeth  in  the  vine, 
Weaving  its  tendrils  round  thy  lofty  trunk, 
Climbing  to  kiss  the  sunshine  at  the  top. 

Beyond  the  angle  of  yon  beetling  cliff 

A  mountain  stream  pours  down  with  tireless  plash, 

Now  stealing  round  a  boulder  in  its  path, 

Now  dallying  and  now  speeding  on  its  way, 

And  leaping  madly  from  the  battled  rock 

To  plunge  in  frothing  eddy  at  its  base. 

149 


Perchance,  between  the  foliage  of  the  pine, 
There  drop  the  sun's  bright  lances  all  unseen, 
And,  striking  full  athwart  the  waterfall, 
They  shiver  in  a  thousand  sparks  of  light. 

A  droning  murmur  rises  from  the  stream 
(As  'twere  the  distant  clang  and  clash  of  arms,) 
And  there,  amidst  the  mimic  scene  of  strife, 
A  rainbow-banner  hangs  upon  the  spray. 

Anon  the  scene  is  changed,  and  in  the  west 

The  sun  goes  down  behind  a  neighbor  peak, 

Lost  to  my  vision  ere  his  time;  and  yet 

A  halo  of  his  glory  still  surmounts 

The  craggy  height,  and  crowns  the  mountain  king. 

And  now  the  peaceful  twilight  creepeth  on 
And  Nature  for  an  instant  seems  to  near 
The  confines  of  that  Aiden-land  beyond, 
Where  neither  echo  wakes  nor  shadow  falls. 

And  then  the  night,  the  ever  glorious  night, 
With  white  stars  floating  in  the  ether-space! 
'Tis  then,  Sierra  Pine,  I  love  thee  best; 
For,  though  I  find  a  deeper  solitude 
Beneath  thy  somber  branches,  still  I  know 
However  dark  my  life  may  seem  to  me, 
It  hath  been  flecked  with  sunshine  all  along 
Like  to  the  noon-tide  shadow  on  the  rock. 


150 


Oh,  welcome  rest,  oh,  blest  surcease  of  care, 
That  falls  upon  the  heart  a-weary  grown! 
Sierra  Pine,  I  come  to  thee  and  claim 
A  breath  of  balm  to  fan  my  fevered  brow, 
And  dreamy  odors,  lulling  to  repose; 
And  lo!     a  miracle!     Straightway  I  rise, 
And,  like  the  widow's  son  of  Nain,  I  find 
My  pulses  leaping  into  life  once  more. 


WHENCE  COMETH  THOUGHT? 

Whence  cometh  thought?     Oh,  learned  Doctor,  whence 
This  something-nothing, — this  strange  paradox, 
More  transient  than  the  firefly's  stroke  of  wing, 
And  more  enduring  than  an  age  of  brass? 

Is  it  within  the  brain,  of  friction  born, 

As  steel  and  flint  opposed  bring  forth  a  spark? 

And  doth  our  good  grey  matter  strike  a  light, 

To  urge  an  impulse  and  invoke  a  will? 

Or  comes  it  like  the  lightning  flash  aloft, 

Dropped  from  a  lowering  cloud  of  mystery, 

And  sending  through  the  nerves  its  ready  thrill, — 

The  shock  of  being  and  of  consciousness? 

Whence  cometh  thought,  oh,  learned  Doctor,  whence? 
What  is  the  subtle  bond  'twixt  mind  and  man? 
Where  doth  the  impulse  start,  and  when  and  how? 
Tell  me,  oh,  wise  man,  how  a  thought  is  born. 


151 


THE  YEARS  ARE  FIVE  AND  FORTY 

So,  Dear,  the  years  are  five  and  forty.    Now 

The  shadows  lengthen  on  the  far-spent  path, 

And  ere  the  night  falls,  let  us  rest  and  talk. 

Perchance  we  may  trudge  on  another  day 

And  still  another  down  a  gentle  slope; 

And  mayhap,  if  the  fates  are  kind,  anon 

Together  reach  the  golden  jubilee. 

Who  knows  the  goal?    But  they  who  ply  the  skein 

Are  niggard  of  its  length  beyond  a  knot 

That  marks  three  score  and  ten.     Full  soon  the  dame 

That  holds  the  shears  with  stern  solicitude 

Will  clip  a  thread;  and  whether  yours  or  mine 

We  know  not,  and  'tis  better  so.     But  one 

Will  sit  with  folded  hands,  and  think  and  think, 

(Ah,  then  there'll  be  no  further  tasks  to  do,) 

And  it  will  seem  so  little  time  we  had, 

And  life  so  full  of  duties  and  of  cares, 

That  there  was  left  for  us  no  breathing  space 

To  know  each  others'  thoughts.    Ah,  then,  be  sure 

There  will  be  time  enough  to  think  and  think, 

With  folded  hands! 

How  falls  it  dear,  that  I, 
Urged  by  some  vagrant  fancy  or  conceit 
That  ebbs  and  flows  defiant  of  the  will, 
Have  celebrated  in  my  random  way 
Full  many  a  hap  and  circumstance  of  life, 
But  never  sang  of  love?     Is  it  because 
I  loved  but  once,  and  that  love  blessed  in  youth 
And  blessed  through  all  the  happy  years  of  life 
Was  self-sufficing?    Even  so;  and  hence 
My  wanton  self  commanded,  "Peace;  be  still." 
152 


But  now  that  we  together  have  o'erpassed 
The  long  ascending  way,  and  from  the  top 
Behold,  set  out  against  the  farther  sky, 
The  glimmer  of  an  eventide  of  peace, 
My  gypsy  mood  comes  back  unsatisfied, 
And  whispers,  "Sing."     "Sing  of  a  happy  life, 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  love  and  sweet  content; 
Sing  of  the  darling  wife  whose  ripened  years 
Yield  thee  the  harvest  of  domestic  joy; 
Sing  of  the  sturdy  boys  and  winsome  girls 
That  cluster  round  thy  hearthstone.     Sing  of  these 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  long-pent  song 
Proclaim  how  good  a  thing  it  is  to  love." 


Why  sing  of  love  to  thee, 

Light  of  my  life? 
Love  passeth  minstrelsy, 

Darling,  my  wife, 
Why  not  the  spoken  word,— 

Old  and  yet  new, 
Treasured  as  oft  as  heard, 

Leal  and  true? 

Ah,  but  the  word  and  will 

Pass  with  a  breath; 
Soon  must  the  voice  be  still, 

Silenced  in  death. 
Song's  an  immortal  thing, 

Treasured  above; 
Angels  will  ever  sing 

Anthems  of  love. 
163 


So  will  I  sing  to  thee, 

Dearest  of  earth, 
Poor  though  the  minstrelsy 

And  little  worth; 
Then,  when  the  shadows  fall 

Ending  my  day, 
This  shall  my  love  recall, 

Singing  alway. 


I  mind  a  little  house  set  on  a  hill 

O'erlooking  all  the  village  and  beyond; 

And  it  was  such  a  cozy  little  house, 

And  it  was  such  a  spacious  little  house, 

And  it  was  such  a  grand  affair,  all  told, 

Because  it  was  our  own; — our  very  own. 

And  there  was  room  to  spare,  (for  surely  two 

Did  not  require  so  large  a  place)  and  so 

We  took  a  lodger — Happiness — to  stay; 

And  he  brought  friends  enough  betimes 

To  fill  the  little  home  chock-full.    E'en  then, 

As  time  winged  on,  there  still  seemed  ample  room 

To  bring  another  guest; — and  then  the  baby  came. 

Ah,  well,  my  dear,  it  seems  but  yesterday, 
And  what  a  sweet,  brief  day  it  was!    Again 
I  seem  to  stand  within  that  sacred  room 
And  move  with  muffled  step  and  bated  breath; 
I  see  the  fond  girl-mother  lying  there, 
Her  white,  wan  face  illumined  with  a  smile 
That  God  vouchsafes  alone  to  motherhood 
And  angels.     In  the  nurse's  arms  behold 
Wonder  of  all  the  ages! — a  new  life. 
154 


But  came  another  guest  one  day,  unhid, 
A  somber  guest — and  set  his  mark  upon 
The  lintel  of  our  door,  and  entered  in; 
And  we  were  poor  indeed  and  desolate, 
And  all  our  merry  company  was  gone. 


OUR  BABY  STILL 

Our  first-born  is  our  baby  still; 

For  he  shall  never  older  grow, 
Nor  any  suffering  nor  any  ill 

Shall  baby  know. 

And  he  shall  always  with  us  bide, 
In  calm  and  restful  sleep 

And  we  shall  always  by  his  side 
Our  vigils  keep. 

The  others  born  to  us  are  dear, 

(But  one  is  gone  afar) 
And  those  about  the  hearth-stone  here 

Our  joy  and  solace  are; 

And  now  our  task  is  nearly  done 
(The  sun  sets  o'er  the  hill) 

We  turn  again  to  the  little  one 
Who  is  our  baby  still. 


155 


A  LITTLE  BIRD 

Dead  at  the  coming  of  Spring, 
Dead  at  the  dawning  of  day, 

With  head  tucked  under  its  wing, 
And  folded  away. 

Dead  on  the  lawn  at  my  feet, 

Midst  dew-gemmed  grass  and  flowers, 
While  the  air  is  vibrant  and  sweet 

In  the  waking  hours. 

Dead  while  the  world  is  rife 
With  hope  and  joy  sublime, 

Dead  in  the  heyday  of  life, 
At  nesting  time. 

Dead  while  the  songster  aloft 

Is  tuning  his  roundelay, 
And  a  bird  from  hither  bush 

Flies  mourning  away. 

Oh,  little  one  there  on  the  lawn, 
So  fragile,  so  fond,  so  young! 

Thou  goest  as  others  have  gone, 
With  song  unsung; 

And  the  Master  who  noteth  thy  fall, 

The  Master  alone  can  tell 
Why  the  summons  must  come  to  us  all, 

And  why  it  is  well. 

156 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  EAST 

A  worthy  Fellahan  of  Chilminar, 

(So  runs  an  ancient  legend  of  the  East) 

Bereft  of  one  he  held  most  dear  of  earth, 

And  sorrowing  greatly,  sought  the  Prophet  out, 

And  begged  a  potion  for  his  malady. 

"Go,"  said  the  Sage.  "Search  out  a  house 

Whose  door  has  ne'er  been  darkened  by  such  loss, 

And  of  the  master  ask  a  drachma-cup 

Of  salt;  and  may  thy  journey  find  thee  whole." 

The  Fellahan  pursued  his  quest  betimes, 

And  fared  through  all  the  valley  of  Cathay, 

And  sought  in  every  village,  house  to  house, 

But  found  no  home  without  a  sorrow  marked. 

Perhaps,  my  dear,  there  is  a  subtle  thread 

Athwart  the  convolutions  of  our  tale. 

Perhaps  its  inner  meaning  may  avail 
The  one  who  sorrows  greatly  for  his  dead, 
And  long  refuses  to  be  comforted. 

'Twas  not  the  salt  the  mourner  sought  for  dole, 

It  was  the  journey  made  the  mourner  whole. 
And  ever  thus  the  lesson's  to  be  read: 
In  sodden  sorrow  there  is  selfishness; 

And  he  who  wards  away  the  Comforter 
Hugs  to  his  bosom  only  dire  Distress. 

A  stricken  heart  yields  soonest  to  the  stir 
Of  fellow-feeling;— sympathy,  no  less 

For  others  than  for  self;  and  in  the  whir 
Of  life,  an  Angel  comes  to  heal  and  bless. 


157 


So,  in  the  fulness  of  allotted  time, 

We  filled  our  stations  and  found  work  at  hand, 

That  claimed  an  earnest  effort  and  gave  joy 

In  doing  with  our  might.    Small  faith  have  I 

In  that  old  legend  of  the  primal  curse 

Sent  as  a  punishment  to  sinful  man. 

I  hail  it,  rather,  God's  good  gift,  conferred 

Upon  his  own  that  they  may  nobly  claim 

His  attributes,  and  be  themselves,  in  turn, 

Creators.    Work  is  divine,  and  wisely  done 

It  leads  to  loftiest  heights  and  opens  wide 

The  largess  of  the  world — God's  treasure  house — 

That  proves  at  last  our  true  inheritance. 

And  as  we  loved  and  toiled  our  duties  grew, 
And  they  were  ever  welcome.     Round  our  hearth 
Came  prattling  children — ruddy  girls  and  boys — 
And,  standing  all  a-row  in  dress  parade, 
One  might  have  noted  how  the  steps  went  up, 
Each  taller  by  a  head  than  his  next  mate. 


IF  LOVE  WERE  BUT  A  HOLIDAY 

If  love  were  but  a  holiday, 

All  brightness  and  all  pleasure; 
If  love  were  but  the  flowers  of  May 

And  gladness  without  measure, 
Why  then  'twere  but  a  slender  reed 

And  useless  altogether; 
For  love  is  what  we  mostly  need 

In  dark  and  stormy  weather. 

158 


If  love  were  just  a  butterfly 

Disporting  in  the  garden, 
It  wouldn't  be  worth  while  to  try 

To  carry  any  burden. 
Since  life  is  mostly  made,  my  dear, 

Of  care  and  burden-bearing, 
Love's  highest  service  doth  appear 

In  care  and  burden-sharing. 

If  love  were  just  a  beaming  smile 

And  merry  word  and  greeting, 
It  wouldn't  serve  us  all  the  while, 

Or  bear  so  much  repeating. 
For  life  is  made  of  many  moods 

And  many  haps  and  chances; 
And  love  must  have  similitudes 

For  varying  circumstances. 


Upon  the  eldest  of  our  little  band 

Mayhap  we  set  our  hearts  too  much;  for  he 

As  consolation  for  the  baby  gone,  had  held 

Two  measures  of  our  fond  solicitude; 

And  then  you  know  how  partial  parents  are 

To  turn  unto  the  eldest  for  their  stay, 

And  center  hopes  in  him  betimes  beyond 

Their  proper  metes.     Ah,  well,  we  could  not  know 

He  was  a  consolation  only  loaned, 

Not  given,  and  that  a  strict  account  was  kept 

Up  there,  and  payment  would  be  asked  in  full 

When  due,  by  a  stern  creditor.     But  say  it  not 

So  harshly. 

159 


Rather  say  the  Master  gave 
Within  the  closure  of  our  paradise, 
A  plant  for  our  especial  care  and  joy, 
And  that  we  tended  it  so  faithfully, 
And  digged  and  watered  like  true  husbandmen, 
And  cherished  every  little  twig  that  grew 
And  joyed  to  see  it  bourgeon,  stem  and  leaf. 
Say  that  the  Master,  with  approving  thought, 
Reached  forth  and  plucked  the  earliest  bud  of  all 
And  afterward  a  flower  full-blown.    And  say 
The  Master  claimed  but  tribute  of  his  own; 
Tis  not  for  us  to  question  or  repine. 


O   AZRAEL 

0  Azrael,  saw  thou  not  a  youth 
Passing  this  way  and  faring  o'er  the  hills 
Toward  the  land  of  shadows  and  the  Night? 
Alone  he  hastened  forth,  as  one  that  bears 
From  Love  a  precious  message  and  a  gift. 
And  he  is  tall  and  strong,  and  in  his  face 
Beams  the  clear  light  of  hope  and  loyalty. 
Saw  thou  not  the  youth,  0  Azrael? 
He  is  our  son,  and  he  hath  gone  afar. 

Then  said  the  Angel,  Death:     /  saw  the  youth, 
And  marked  him  tall  and  strong,  bearing  himself 
As  one  upon  a  joyous  mission  bent. 
Unquestioning,  unafraid,  he  journeyed  forth 
To  seel^  the  oast  Unknown.    I  spal^e  him  fair, 
And  with  him  walked  beyond  the  shadowy  hills, 
And  gave  commission  to  the  Aiden  land. 
160 


0,  Azrael,  our  son  is  young  and  fair; 

In  memory  he  comes  a  babe  in  arms; — 

A  little  toddler  prattling  by  our  side; — 

A  sturdy  lad  at  school, — and  then  a  youth 

Whose  manly  promise  was  our  sweetest  thought. 

What  need  for  such  a  messenger  hads't  thou 

And  such  a  gift?     My  heart  misgiveth  me 

That  they  who  take  thy  benison  away 

Return  no  more  forever.     Now,  alas, 

Our  arms  stretched  forth  for  greeting,   do  enfold 

Naught  but  a  memory  and  a  carking  grief, 

And  we  are  desolate.     0  Azrael, 

Thou  hast  so  many,  yet  hath  taken  ours. 

Then  said  the  Angel,  Death:    Be  comforted; 

The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  pure  have  gone 

Upon  this  journey  and  must  ever  go. 

If,  since  the  dawn  of  time,  'tis  ordered  thus, 

Dost  thou  not  see  't  is  ordered  well?     Think  n°l 

A  kindly  Nature  that  bestoweth  life 

And  all  that  ma^es  life  gracious  hath  ordained 

Its  end  but  for  creations  good.     Think  not 

That  aught  in  all  this  universe  of  change 

Shall  live  in  vain  or  perish  utterly. 

0  Azrael,  he  was  but  Nature's  child; 

Life  came,  he  knew  not  whence,  he  asked  not  why, 

But,  with  the  steadfast  faith  of  innocence, 

He  lived  it  well  and  aye  was  just  and  true. 

Unawed,  unhampered  by  the  primal  curse, 

Or  by  vicarious  sin  or  sacrifice, 

He  sought  nor  creed  nor  craft  to  know  the  will 

Of  his  Creator. 

161 


When  the  summons  came 
He  yielded  up  the  sacred  trust  imposed 
And,  smiling,  went  his  way.     Is  there  for  him 
A  place  within  the  Aiden  land?    For  him 
Doth  kindly  Nature  have  a  care?    Say'st  thou 
That  such  a  life  is  not  bestowed  in  vain, 
And  such  a  death  is  not  the  wage  of  sin? 

Then  said  the  Angel,  Death:    Dismiss  thy  fears; 
He  that  doth  note  the  sparrow's  fall  and  holds, 
Within  the  hollow  of  His  hand  the  fate 
Of  all  created  things,  is  just  and  good. 
'Tis  not  for  man  to  fathom  all  His  ways, 
But  be  thou  satisfied;  the  end  is  Peace. 


TO  MAIDA 

Come,  dear  one,  walk  with  me  a  little  way 
Along  the  quiet  river,  for  it  flows 

So  strong,  so  sure,  so  tranquil  to  the  bay, 
It  bids  my  troubled  spirit  seek  repose. 

Perchance,  in  parting  from  its  canyon  home, 
Within  the  fastness  of  yon  mountains  hoar, 

Its  waters  lashed  themselves  in  angry  foam 
And  chafed  and  fretted  on  the  rocky  shore. 

But,  after  all  the  turmoil  and  the  strife, 
And  after  all  their  struggle  for  release, 

With  chastened  spirit,  and  instinct  with  life, 
The  waters  come  to  us  and  whisper  Peace. 
162 


So  walk  with  me,  dear  girl,  along  the  shore, 
And  we  will  learn  the  lesson  of  the  stream; 

And  talk  as  we  have  never  talked  before 
Upon  an  old,  a  sadly-sacred  theme. 

And  take  my  hand  in  thine,  my  dear,  and  be 
My  child,  my  loving  daughter,  just  to-day, 

For  I  would  know  thy  filial  sympathy 

While  sorrow's  shadow  overspreads  the  way. 

A  hallowed  message  comes  to  you  and  me 

From  out  the  trcdden  vale  of  yesteryears: 

We  read  the  words  but  dimly,  mistily, 

As  they  who  look  through  lashes  wet  with  tears. 

Dear  Maida,  I  am  stricken;  none  can  tell 

How  sorely;  but  I'm  not  afraid  to  die. 
Whatever  be  the  outcome,  it  is  well. 

I  write  this  little  note  to  say  good-bye. 

And  this  was  all  his  message,  dear,  to  you 

When,  hand  in  hand  we  lingered  o'er  his  bier; 

And  this  you  gave  me  when  our  grief  was  new, 
And  it  is  blurred  with  many  a  bitter  tear. 

Ah,  had  his  life  been  spared,  my  noble  boy! 

And  budding  love  had  flowered  and  fruited,  then 
My  daughter  I  had  hailed  you  in  my  joy. 

Ah,  dear,  it  might  have  been,  it  might  have  been. 

So  Maida,  we  will  walk  a  little  way 

Along  the  quiet  river;    for  it  flows 
So  strong,  so  sure,  so  placid,  to  the  bay, 

It  bids  my  troubled  spirit  find  repose. 

163 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND 

Lo,  the  tense  bowstring,  long  o'erdrawn  and  frayed, 
Hath  snapped  asunder!    Here  the  arrow  falls, 
Spoiled  of  its  wonted  flight,  and  the  spent  bow 
Lies  nerveless  and  discarded  on  the  ground. 

Now  let  the  tired  hunter  stay  his  hand. 
Now  let  the  weary  feet  and  brain  and  heart 
Find  surcease  from  the  travail  of  the  day. 
Now  let  him  throw  his  heavy  burden  down, 
And  rest,  and  rest,  and  rest  forevermore. 

Friend  of  my  boyhood,  friend  of  halcyon  days, 
Friend  of  the  ripening  years,  and  aye  my  friend 
Through  every  changing  circumstance  of  life, 
I  speak  thee  endless  peace.    Hail  and  farewell! 
May  friendship  such  as  thine,  on  brighter  shores, 
In  happier  climes  abide,  and  may  it  bring 
The  guerdon  of  a  perfect  love  to  thee. 

Ah,  friend,  when  I  recall  the  long  ago, 

We  shared  our  schoolboy  joys  and  troubles  all, 

And  searched  the  woods  and  roamed  the  hills  and  vales 

That  stretched  about  our  rugged  western  home; — 

When  I  review  with  scarce  regretful  thought 

The  follies  and  the  foibles  of  our  youth; 

When  I  recall  the  many  happy  days 

We  read  the  Scottish  bards,  and  dreamed  our  dreams, 

And  wove  into  the  pattern  of  our  lives 

The  threads  of  Highland  romance  and  of  song; 

164 


When  I  am  minded  of  the  plans  we  laid 

And  how,  through  darkened  glass,  we  sought  to  peer 

Into  the  mysteries  of  the  coining  time; 

Tis  hard  to  feel  that  more  than  thirty  years 

Have  sped  away,  and  that  at  last  for  thee 

The  story's  told,  the  closing  canto  sung. 

And  how  has  life  fulfilled  our  boyish  dreams? 
In  sooth,  I  know  not,  for  the  busy  day 
Dispels  the  slumberous  fancies  of  the  morn. 
But  this  I  know:     Wherever  Duty  called 
No  lagging  step  betrayed  an  irksome  charge; 
Thine  was  an  instant  service  and  a  free. 
Oh,  earnest  one!     What  found  thy  hand  to  do 
That  didst  thou  with  thy  might,  and  ever  sought 
Some  further,  harder  task  to  make  complete 
The  measure  of  thy  usefulness.     To  thee 
Came  summons  for  a  busy  life,  full  charged 
With  heavy  undertakings,  ceaseless  care, 
Amidst  the  whirring  wheels  of  industry, 
Amidst  the  madding  turmoil  of  affairs 
Fraught  with  grave  import  to  thy  fellow-man. 
And  as  thy  duties  multiplied  apace 
Came  strength  and  courage  for  the  greater  need, 
While  every  task  completed  but  inspired. 
Had  nature  given  thee  a  giant's  strength 
That  strength  had  been  employed  to  uttermost 
To  fill  the  promptings  of  thy  giant  will. 


165 


Quick  to  discern  the  justice  of  a  cause, 
Ready  to  draw  the  proper  metes  and  bounds 
Twixt  might  and  right;  considerate  and  kind 
To  all  with  whom  thy  daily  life  was  cast, 
What  wonder  that  the  ready  plaudit  comes: 
Here  was  a  man  the  world  is  better  for. 

Upon  thy  inner  life,  the  sacred  shrine 
Of  home  and  of  domestic  tenderness, 
Look  not  unhallowed  eyes!     It  is  enough 
If  all  that  human  hearts  may  know  and  feel 
Responsive  to  the  magic  chord  of  love 
In  Husband,  Father,  Son,  is  felt  by  those 
Whose  lives  were  blest  and  glorified  by  thine. 

Again  farewell.     If  I  could  give  to  these 
And  to  the  world  the  lesson  of  thy  life, 
Twould  be  a  charge  to  duty.     I  would  say 
He  serves  his  maker  best  who  serves  his  kind. 
Tis  not  in  blind  subservience  to  forms, 
"Tis  not  in  protestations  and  long  prayers, 
'Tis  not  in  cloistered  vigils  of  the  night. 
Or  brooding  o'er  a  host  of  hapless  ills, 
But  in  the  world's  activities  are  formed 
The  hopes,  the  happiness,  the  lives  of  men, 
That  bring  a  better  era  to  the  race. 

And  as  I  say  farewell  there  comes  to  me 
The  whisper  of  a  thought  but  half  expressed, 
The  echo  of  a  song  that  ne'er  was  sung; 
But,  from  the  inner  chambers  of  my  heart, 
I  hear  it  still.    Mayhap  the  song  was  thine. 

166 


For  a  summer's  cruise  I  will  sail  away; 

I  will  sail  at  the  ides  of  Spring, 
And  my  day  of  parting  shall  be  the  day 

Of  my  welcoming. 

I  will  sail  away  to  placid  seas; 

I  will  sail  to  the  South,  I  will  sail  to  the  West, 
And,  far  from  the  world's  perplexities, 

I  shall  find  rest. 

I  will  sail  in  a  craft  that  is  all  mine  own, 
With  none  to  challenge  whither  or  why, 

And  the  waves  shall  cradle,  the  breezes  drone 
My  lullaby. 

I  will  sail  past  the  sunset's  amber  glow 

To  the  isles  of  palms,  the  isles  of  peace, 

And  naught  shall  hinder  and  none  forego 
My  soul's  release. 

I  will  sail  to  the  land  of  my  longing  heart — 
The  land  of  balsam  and  fragrant  airs — 

Where  nature  doeth  her  perfect  part 
And  man  forbears. 

Then  say  not  farewell.     In  God's  own  time 
Thou  too  shalt  be  free  for  a  season's  rest; 

We  shall  meet,  we  shall  meet  on  those  shores  sublime, 
In  the  isles  of  the  blest. 


167 


OUR  RIDDLE 

Friend  of  my  early  day, — 

Boy  of  all  boys  mine  own; 

Man  among  men,  and  gone 
Thy  farther  way, 

Sing  as  I  must  betimes, 

Craving  thy  distant  thought, 
I  bring,  as  in  youth  I  brought 

My  halting  rhymes. 

Friend  in  the  heyday  time, 

Friend  when  the  shadows  fell, 
Tell  me,  at  last  is  it  well? 

Is  the  future  sublime? 

Tell  me,  is  memory  held 

Of  all  this  earthly  life,— 

Of  its  joys  and  sorrows  and  strife, 

And  nothing  dispelled? 

Do  the  friends  of  earthly  days 

Renew  their  friendships  there? 
And  dost  thou  still  have  a  care 

For  my  thoughts  and  ways? 

Are  those  that  continue  here 

In  the  moil  and  struggle  and  din, — 
Are  they,  thy  lost  friends,  still  within 

Thy  larger  sphere? 

168 


Dost  thou  watch  with  kindly  thought 
The  petty  lives  we  lead? 
And  canst  thou  then  take  heed 

Of  what  is  wrought? 

Oh,  Friend,  doth  consciousness, — 
The  knowledge  that  I  am  I 
Persist  in  that  by-and-by 

To  keep  and  bless? 

Or  is  it  a  dreamless  sleep, — 
The  sleep  of  eternity, 
And  the  sleepers  forever  free 

In  Oblivion's  deep? 

Oh,  Friend,  let  thy  soul  and  mine 
For  a  little  hour  commune; — 
The  riddle  is  solved  full  soon; — 

The  riddle  of  mine  and  thine. 


WHITHER  AWAY? 

Where  are  our  friends  of  yesteryear? — our  best 
Who  passed  beyond  our  ken,  encompassed  all 

In  one  vast  mystery?    Where  do  they  rest 
Beyond  the  shadowy  pall? 

We  grope  to  find,  through  darkening  faith  and  creed, 
Some  other  door  than  death  to  lead  us  thence, 

And  not  a  door  is  opened  to  our  need 
But  charlatan  pretense. 

169 


For  they  who  claim  communion  with  that  bourne 
Of  parted  spirits — who  themselves  invoke 

By  dancing  table  and  suspiring  horn, 
Bring  fol-de-rol.     It  is  a  joke. 

Where  are  our  own,  our  dearest  loved  and  lost, 
All  passed  to  that  sequestered  hiding-place? 

Where  the  vast  multitude,  the  countless  host 
From  ages  of  the  race? 

Where  are  the  hosts  from  other  worlds  than  this,- 
Uncounted  millions  in  unbounded  space? 

Is  there  for  all  of  these  a  state  of  bliss, 
An  universe  of  grace? 

Or,  shall  we  grope  with  Oriental  seers, 

And  solve  this  Sphinx's  riddle  of  the  soul, 

That  all  the  million  lives  of  million  years 
Are  merged  in  one  great  whole? 

Shall  every  drop  in  this  soul-ocean  poured 

Know  'tis  a  drop — a  fix'd  reality 
In  consciousness, — and  feel  the  hope  secured 

In  immortality? 

Or,  if  we  say  the  Master  pours  again 

This  life  into  another  for  a  span, 
The  thrifty  scheme  brings  other  life,  'tis  plain, 

In  animal  or  man. 

'Tis  but  a  fancy, — bald  and  commonplace, 

That  brings  no  solace  to  the  hungering  soul; 

Tis  but  the  maundering  of  a  morbid  race; — 
A  part  is  not  the  whole. 

170 


Then  let  us  sit  with  Socrates;  the  while 

He  holds  the  cup,  and  with  his  parting  breath, 

Speaks  words  of  wondrous  import  that  beguile 
His  waiting  friends, — and  death. 

Some  say  the  after  life  to  which  we  tend 

Is  but  a  long  and  dreamless  sleep;  if  so, 

It  must  be  pleasant.     To  that  happy  end, 
If  thus  ordained,  I  go. 

And  yet  'tis  hard  to  give  the  matter  up 
With  mere  equivocation  for  a  hope; — 

If  this  be  so,  why  then: — and  drink  the  cup — 
Thus  also  do  we  grope. 

Perchance  in  modern  science  we  may  find 

Some  filmy  thread  to  hang  our  hopes  upon; 

For  any  hope  appealing  to  the  mind 
Is  better  far  than  none. 

Tis  held — alas,  who  holds  it? — only  men — 
And  postulate  and  reason  both  it  brings; 

Tis  not  a  matter  of  the  soul  again, 
But  of  material  things; 

That  every  atom  circling  in  its  orb, 

Within  the  confines  of  its  molecule, 

And  all  the  force  these  particles  absorb 
Are  under  law  and  rule; 


171 


That  matter  changes  ever  in  its  form, 

Nor  questions  what  the  individual  cost, 

But  Force  and  Matter  never  suffer  harm; — 
No  particle  is  lost. 

Ah,  then,  it  were  a  sorry  hope,  my  friend, 
For  this  poor  atom  in  a  breath  of  law, — 

Tossed,  and  converted  to  some  other  end, 
As  wind-tossed  straw. 

But  such  an  airy  nothingness  we  hail, 
As  worthy  better  argument,  or  none; 

For  if  the  great  Constructor  doth  prevail, 
To  hold  unspent,  his  own, 

Why  not,  in  this  all-comprehending  scheme, 
A  plan  provided  which  we  cannot  scan, 

To  save — what's  more  than  Atom's  hope  or  dream- 
The  soul  of  man? 

Ah,  then,  it  is  a  filmy  thread  indeed, — 
A  slender  cable  for  our  tossing  ship, — 

But  hope  is  hope,  and  we're  in  sorest  need 
Of  something  on  this  trip. 

Then  let  us  hope,  and  ever  hoping,  live 

To  fill  our  destiny,  whate'er  it  be, 
And  not  o'erquestion  what  the  Giver  give 

In  time  or  in  eternity. 


172 


THE  AFTER-GLOW 

As  the  sun  drops  o'er  yon  western  hill; 
As  the  Day,  departing,  lingers  still, 

And  nods  and  smiles  as  if  loath  to  go; 
Comes  a  light  on  tree  and  grass  and  flower 
That  glorifies  the  passing  hour; — 

And  we  call  that  light  the  after-glow. 

Then  the  sky  puts  on  a  deeper  blue, 
Then  the  rose  is  dyed  a  brighter  hue, 

Then  a  sense  of  beauty  and  sweet  repose 
Fills  me  and  thrills  me  through  and  through, 
And  then,  my  dearest,  I  think  of  you; 

For  you  are  all  of  my  after-glows. 


WHEN  THE  GRIM  REAPER  COMES 

When  the  grim  reaper  comes,  as  come  he  must, 
To  gather  in  Dame  Nature's  harvest-store, 
Swinging  his  scythe  right  lustily  before, 

May  he  not  find  me  prone  upon  the  dust, 

A  blighted  thing  of  parasite  or  rust, 

But  waving  full  and  free,  and  looking  o'er 
A  field  that  yields  an  hundred  fold  and  more, 

Just  recompense  to  husbandman  full  just. 

And  when  he  swings  across  the  little  space 
Whereon,  to  make  a  sheaf,  I  am  but  one, 

May  I  be  found  upstanding  in  my  place 

And  sturdy  for  the  blade  to  sweep  upon; — 

A  ripened  stem  to  fall  with  ready  grace 
In  last  obeisance  to  the  setting  sun. 

173 


TWO  SOLDIERS 

I  knew  a  man  of  brave  and  generous  deeds, 
Who,  nerved  with  courage  and  a  righteous  cause, 
Went  forth  to  battle.    Fought  he  well  and  long — 
Fought  for  his  country  and  for  those  he  loved, 
Nor  turned  aside  the  measure  of  a  span 
When  in  his  path  he  met  the  giant  Death 
Disputing  passage.     Where  he  fought  he  fell, 
And  there,  unsuccored  by  a  friendly  hand, 
Breathed  out  his  life.     It  was  a  glorious  deed, 
And  well  the  world  may  call  him  hero;  well 
May  sound  his  praises  far  and  near,  and  wreathe 
His  tomb  with  laurels.     Yet,  methinks,  there  is 
Another  heroism,  grander  still, 
Which,  all  too  oft,  the  world  forgets  to  praise. 

The  soldier  felt  the  martial  thrill  of  strife; 
Midst  beat  of  drum  and  tramp  of  thousand  feet 
He  marched  to  battle,  taking  equal  chance 
Of  life  and  death  with  foe  who  met  him  there. 
And  thus  to  strive  and  thus  to  dare  and  die 
Were  worth  the  tribute  of  a  patriot's  life. 

Another  one  I  knew — 
A  frail,  weak  woman,  but  with  iron  heart, 
Who,  in  the  quiet  of  a  loving  home, 
Waged  battle  that  might  make  the  hardy  quail. 


174 


Alone,  with  unnerved  arm,  with  sinking  hope, 

She  fought  with  Fate,  and  ever  knew  defeat, 

Yet  fought  and  fought  again,  with  stubborn  will. 

Denying  to  her  foe  the  victory. 

Nor  blanched  her  cheek  with  fear,  nor  from  her  lips 

Escaped  a  single  outcry  of  despair. 

Her  life,  the  field  of  conflict,  yielded  she, 

But  inch  by  inch,  as  driven  back  amain, 

Until  the  utmost  boundary  was  reached. 

Twas  no  surrender,  but  a  long  retreat 

To  death — and  Fate  was  master  of  the  day. 

Which  was  the  better  soldier,  he  or  she? 
Which  of  the  twain  possessed  the  stouter  heart? 
The  world  may  give  unequal  meed  of  praise 
And  glorify  the  one  who  fell  in  strife. 
God  saw  the  noble  conflicts;  He  will  judge, 
And  not  the  less  award  to  that  brave  soul 
Who  battled  with  a  more  than  mortal  foe, 
And  at  the  last  snatched  victory  from  defeat. 


175 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO 

Turn  me  the  glass  in  thy  hand,  0  Fancy,  thou  fond  necro 
mancer; 

Turn,  and  the  sands  shall  run  backward,  recalling  a  time  long 
departed! 

Turn  me  the  glass,  and  disclose  this  land  by  the  placid  Pacific 

Ere  a  century  mighty  in  deeds  had  considered  and  worked 
transformation. 

Backward  a  hundred  years,  and,  lo!  there  stretches  before  me 
Landscape  as  wild  as  e'er  came  from  the  hand  of  the  Master — 
Mountains  whose  cavernous  sides  are  the  haunt  of  the  bear 

and  coyote, 
Echoing  canyons  and  glens  where  the  deer  seeks  its  chaparral 

cover, 
Purposeless  rivers  that  flow  but  to  sink  in  the  sands  of  the 

valley, 
Deserts  of  verdureless  sand,  white  with  an  alkaline  hoar-frost. 

Hither  Junipero  came,  Father  of  Pioneer  Fathers, 
Marching  with  crozier  and  sword,  in  the  name  of  the  Church 

and  King  Carlos, 
Gaining  a  province  the  while  he  was  saving  the  souls  of  the 

heathen. 

Then,  with  frugality  born  of  a  mission  of  peace  and  salvation, 
Listing  the  new-made  recruits  to  conquer  the  fastness  of 

Nature. 


176 


Here  on  the  shores  of  the  bays  and  in  valleys  that  skirted 

the  rivers, 
Builded  the  Fathers  their  missions,  and  called  the  rude  people 

to  worship, 
Taught  them  that  idleness  ever  breeds  poverty,  mischief 

and  sorrow — 
Planted  the  olive  and  vine,  and  admonished  their  converts 

to  tend  them. 

Gathered  at  last  to  the  arms  of  the  saints,  the  Pioneer  Fathers, 

Left  others  as  fervent  and  faithful  to  teach  and  command  in 
their  places. 

Peace  came  and  dwelt  in  the  province;  peace  and  content 
ment  together, 

And  the  valleys  were  rich  with  their  harvests,  the  plains  with 
their  cattle. 

Then  it  was  that  a  galleon  sailing  for  cargo  of  tallow  and 
peltry, 

Brought  news  of  a  warfare  that  raged  on  the  shores  of  the 
distant  Atlantic — 

A  warfare  'twas  said  that  was  greater  than  that  of  the  Mexi 
can  conquest. 

The  colonies,  banded  together,  had  issued  pronunciamiento 

Dissolving  their  bond  of  allegiance,  proclaiming  their  free 
dom  forever. 

Great  Britain,  enraged  at  the  petty  defiance,  had  sent  forth 
her  armies 

To  punish  the  arrogant  rebels  and  bring  them  again  to  sub 
jection. 

177 


The  conflict  had  waged  long  and  fierce,  and  yet  gave  no  sign 

of  abatement, 
While  the  fortunes  of  war  hung  between  them  in  uncertain 

balance. 

Thus  they  spake,  and  the  galleon  sailed  with  her  cargo  of 

tallow  and  peltry, 
But  the  men  of  the  province  remembered  the  tale  and  long 

pondered  upon  it, 
And  whenever  a  vessel  dropped  anchor  to  trade  for  the  goods 

of  the  country 
They  asked  of  the  warfare  that  waged  on  the  shores  of  the 

distant  Atlantic. 

Years  glided  by,  and  once  more  into  port  came  the  galleon 

sailing, 
With  tidings  at  last  that  the  warfare  of  which  they  had 

spoken  was  ended; 
That  the  colonists  who  had  rebelled  and  issued  pronuncia- 

miento 
Had  victory  won  in  the  fight,  and  their  land  was  now  free 

from  oppression. 

Strange  seemed  the  story — so  strange  that  the  sober  old  dons 
of  the  province 

Pondered  and  pondered  upon  it,  yet  guessed  not  its  wonder 
ful  import. 

Little  they  recked  that  the  freedom  proclaimed  on  the  dis 
tant  Atlantic 

Westward  should  sweep  like  a  flood,  nor  stop  till  it  gained 
the  Pacific; 

178 


Little  they  recked  there  was  coming  a  day  in  the  far-distant 

future. 
When  the  men  of  a  new  generation  and  race,  who  should 

stand  in  their  places, 
Would  rejoice  o'er  that  victory  won  and  bless  that  pronun- 

ciamiento! 

0  land  that  hath  slumbered  and  slept  through  the  matin  of 

liberty's  dawning, 
Waken  and  shake  from  thine  eyelids  the  sloth  that  hath 

fallen  upon  them, 
Waken  and  stretch  forth  thy  hands  for  the  toil  of  a  noble 

endeavor! 

Waken  and  rouse  thee  to  action;  a  glorious  destiny  calleth. 
So  shalt  thou  eat  of  the  fruit  that  for  thee  hath  another 

planted; 
So  shalt  thou  ever  be  free,  my  honored,  my  blest  California. 

Centennial  Celebration,  1876 


179 


THE  BLACK  STAR 

In  retrospect  I  see  a  race  bound  down. 

Made  in  God's  image,  ask  you?    Why — then — yes, 

If  God  be  black.     And  can  he  see  distress 
So  abject  on  the  earth,  and  not  a  frown 
Darken  his  visage?     Cares  He  for  his  own 

But  lightly,  as  we  oft  so  ill  profess, 

This  race  of  men  to  curso,  and  that  to  bless? 
And  on  the  one  made  black,  the  thorny  crown 
Of  martyrdom  to  place,  and  rest  his  hand? 

Oh,  ye  of  little  faith  and  lesser  claim 
To  justice,  that  ye  hold  divine  command 

Is  thus  fulfilled,  and  sanctioned  in  his  name! 
Oh,  ye  of  senile  creed  and  craft,  who  stand 

For  prayer  in  market-place,  forshame,  forshame! 

I  see  a  race  'neath  tropic  skies,  that  dwells 

In  jungle  fastness  and  on  desert  sands, 

By  Art  and  Craft  untaught  in  head  and  hands; — 
Children  of  Nature,  made  as  she  compels, 
All  in  the  rough,  like  gems  or  shells 

Whose  polished  glint  the  craftsman's  skill  demands. 

Unground,  uncouth;  but  ground,  in  beauty  stands 
Her  handicraft  revealed.    Thus  she  compels 
Man's  service  to  complete  the  whole  design, 

And  show  what  God  hath  wrought.    How  then  shall  we 
Withhold  from  man  the  helping  hand  benign 

We  give  to  shells  and  rocks,  and  fail  to  see 
That  all  the  roughness  covers  up  the  fine? 

The  Grinder  shirks;  who  is  at  fault  but  he? 


180 


I  see  a  race  deep  sunk  in  barbarous  ways, 

Coping  with  club  and  spear  as  best  they  can 
In  wilds  with  savage  beast  and  savage  man, 

Tribe  against  tribe,  and  all  within  a  haze 

Of  fear.     As  ever,  since  the  primal  days, — 
As  ever  since  the  ceaseless  strife  began, 
With  things  that  stung,  or  struck,  or  crawled,  or  ran, 

The  savage  stands  transfixed  with  frightened  gaze. 
And  this  poor,  trembling  wretch  is  set  upon 

By  savage  e'en  beyond  his  wont  or  ken; 
Another  reign  of  terror  is  begun; — 

By  whom?     Ah,  friend,  let's  hide  our  shame  again. 
The  deed  by  men  full  civilized  was  done. 

Is  then  our  boasted  culture  all  in  vain? 

A  race  of  naked  savages  I  see; — 

Naked  and  afraid,  and  to  and  fro  they  run, 

As  from  some  enemy,  a  fearsome  One 
That  threatens  all.     And  snugly  hidden  away, 
Within  the  shelter  of  yon  placid  bay, 

A  monster  of  the  deep,  all  set  upon 

With  leafless  trees  and  vines; — a  monster  none 
Have  seen  the  like  before.     In  strange  array, 
Men  with  white  faces,  all  behaired,  come  forth 

And  slay,  and  slay  again,  and  still  pursue, 
And  those  they  capture  and  deem  better  worth 

Into  the  monster's  belly  go.     The  few 
They  leave  are  scattered  far,  in  caves  of  earth 

Or  jungle  hiding; — a  piteous  thing  to  view. 


181 


I  see  a  mass  of  wretched  human-kind, 

Like  beasts  ensnared  and  sobered  of  their  rage, 

Cowed,  dumb  and  hopeless  in  a  cage. 
Cowed,  deaf  and  dumb,  these  creatures  all, — 
Of  every  sense  appealing  to  the  mind 

From  outer  world  bereft; — naught  to  assuage 

Their  terror,  or  their  vague,  wild  thoughts  engage 
Save  horrid  mystery.    And  they  who  bind 
This  suffering,  sodden  mass,  and  take  them  hence, 

Are  civilized,  we  said  a  while  agone; — 
Are  civilized  mayhap,  and  make  pretense 

Of  some  religion; — be  it  one  or  none, 
They  call  each  other  Christians,  reasoning  hence, 

In  some  way  followers  of  the  Lowly  One. 

I  see  the  remnant  of  that  sodden  mass, 

Starved,  gaunt  and  bleary-eyed,  that  issues  forth 

From  stinking  hold; — most  abject  of  the  earth; 
Chained  each  to  his  fellow,  as  they  slowly  pass 
Along  the  plank  to  land  all  strange.    Alas! 

The  lot  of  those  that  died  were  better  worth; — 

(Why  were  they  punished  by  the  fate  of  birth?) 
Or,  eaten  with  disease  and  poison-gas, 

Pitched  overboard  in  passage.     Here  they  are, 
Good  men  and  brothers  all,  my  Christian  friends, 

A  lucky  cargo; — the  fat  chance  of  war. 
A  kindly  Providence  conserves  our  ends; 

For  we  have  brought  from  heathen  lands  afar 
Choice  goods  to  buy  for  him  that  hath,  and  spends. 


182 


I  see  a  race  bowed  down  in  servitude, 

Bearing  full  patiently  the  yoke  that  galls; 

Bearing  with  fortitude  the  lash  that  falls; 
In  service  hopeless,  under  drivers  rude 
And  pitiless;  and  no  vicissitude 

Can  change  this  hateful  lot,  that  calls 

For  all  their  dauntless  courage,  and  appalls 
The  hearts  of  them  and  all  their  hopeless  brood. 

I  see  the  fields  of  cotton  and  of  rice 
Yielding  the  wealth  their  masters  take  and  hold; 

I  see  of  sweat  and  blood  the  minted  price, 
In  plundered  silver  and  unhallowed  gold, 

Given  to  luxury  and  unhindered  vice; — 
The  whole  scheme  followed  till  it's  worn  and  old. 

I  see  a  slave  in  punishment  condign, — 

A  being  born  to  this  from  shameful  bed, — 
Master  and  slave,  unmatched,  unloved,  unwed, — 

A  being  snatched  by  ravishing  rapine, — 

A  being,  Master,  not  her  son,  but  thine, — 

Snatched  from  the  mother's  womb,  and  on  his  head 
The  curses  of  his  mother's  lot  are  shed, 

The  profit  going  to  the  father's  line. 

I  see  this  being  sold  for  further  pelf, 

And  from  the  mother  snatched  a  second  time. 

I  see  the  Master  selling,— what? — himself, 

To  swell  his  hoard.     The  grizzly  scheme  is  prime 

And  pregnant  of  ill-gotten  sin,  and  Sin  himself 
Holding  the  scale  of  justice.     How  sublime! 


183 


I  see  this  being  of  unhallowed  birth, 

The  son  of  infamy  and  crime  and  shame, 
Robbed  of  himself,  his  birthright  and  his  name; — 

I  see  this  hapless  creature  issue  forth 

And  prostrate  fall  upon  the  lap  of  earth. 
Ah!    But  he  rises,  for  his  heart's  aflame 
With  courage  and  undaunted  will.    His  no  tame 

Submission  to  the  wrongs  imposed.    His  worth 

Transcends  the  color  of  his  skin  accursed, ' 

And  stands  he  forth  full  measure  of  God's  span. 

And  he  shall  face  his  fate,  and  dare  the  worst, 
As  heroes  dare  it  since  the  world  began; 

And  his  own  bonds  of  slavery  shall  burst; 

His  name  is  Douglass; — Now  behold  the  man. 

I  see  another  of  that  prostrate  race, 

In  which  the  mother  breeds,  the  father  owns: — 
Enough  of  this  sad  theme. — Let's  talk  of  stones. 

I  see  a  mighty  rubbish-pile  in  place 

Dumped  willy-nilly  high,  and  without  grace 
Of  this  poor  aftermath  of  trash  and  bones 
And  human  things  discarded.     No  one  owns 

The  wretched  mess;  let's  talk  of  this  a  space. 

And  from  this  pile  a  little  stone  rolls  out 

(Set  going,  mayhap,  as  some  heedless  one, 
Indifferent  to  pebbles,  moves  about) 

And  this  small  stone,  its  travels  once  begun, 
Gains  as  it  goes,  and  far  the  pile  without, 

Is  now  a  polished  gem, — a  Washington. 


184 


I  see  a  people  ever  making  plea 

For  succor  from  the  bonds  that  hold  them  sore; 

I  hear  their  plaint  for  freedom  o'er  and  o'er. 
I  see  a  Nation,  claiming  to  be  free, 
(And  offering  to  the  world  this  pleasantry) 

Holding  the  gyves  upon  its  suffering  poor, 

And  shutting  tight  the  very  prison  door 
It  claims  to  open  for  all  men.     I  see 

This  perverse  Nation  given  a  warning  due 
By  God's  own  messenger,  who  to  and  fro, 

Moves  o'er  the  land,  and  searching  through  and  through, 
Proclaims  the  threat  that  he  was  sent  to  show; — 

Leaves  marks  upon  the  lintels,  fell  and  true. 
I  see  the  warning  filled; — God's  heavy  blow! 

I  see  a  Nation  plunged  in  deadly  strife, — 

Friend  against  friend,  and  brother  holding  forth 
Hand  against  brother;  and  o'er  all  the  earth 

There's  carnage  and  destruction.     Pillage  rife 

Takes  vengeance,  loss  for  loss,  and  life  for  life; — 

Lays  waste  the  fields  and  homes,  and  South  and  North, 
Drinks  up  the  treasure  it  were  better  worth 

To  sink  in  sea — without  the  bloody  knife. 

I  see  this  Nation  whelmed  beneath  a  flood 
Of  fell  destruction,  with  its  double  flow 

From  right  and  left,  on  evil  and  on  good, 
A  red  engulfment  do  the  surges  show, 

And  all  the  meaning  now  is  understood; — 
Perverse  and  stubborn,  let  my  people  go. 


185 


I  see  a  race  in  tears  and  blood  set  free; 

Empty  of  hands  and  cowering  in  affright 

Left  to  their  own  between  a  day  and  night; 
And  on  them  cast  a  hard  perplexity 
To  live  or  die,  whichever  it  might  be, 

With  slight  consideration  for  their  plight 

From  those  who'd  lost  their  whilom  master's  right; 
(Or  wrong,  'twere  better  said).    And  now  I  see 

This  race  courageous  bending  to  the  load 
Of  their  deliverance,  and  meeting  fate 

As  struggling  freemen  do  and  ever  should; 
And  with  the  Law  to  give  an  open  gate, 

They  pass,  to  claim  at  last  their  share  of  good, 
And  Freedom  comes  to  them  full  consecrate. 

I  see  a  people  made  of  good  and  bad, 

As  other  peoples  are;  if  they  were  worse, 
What  wonder,  coming  from  the  age-long  curse 

Of  slavery?    Ah,  reasoning  friend,  'tis  sad, 

From  vicious  systems  vicious  men  are  had. 

"We  burned  the  nigger-fiend;  why,  yes,  of  course, 
But  then  he  well  deserved  it."     Tis  a  verse 

Oft  quoted;  you  have  heard  it.     But,  my  lad, 
The  Law  is  made  to  meet  such  cases.    Hold 

Thy  hand  till  it  is  proven;  even  then 

Withhold  and  let  the  Law  prevail.    Untold 

The  rank  injustice,  cruel  suffering,  when 

Thy  hasty  hand  goes  wrong,  avenger  bold. 

"Vengeance  is  mine,"  saith  One  who  speaks  again. 


186 


"Vengeance  is  mine,"  saith  God;  and  if  thy  hand 

Would  wrest  from  His  this  dire  prerogative, 

Stop  for  a  moment,  angry  friend,  and  give 
This  matter  some  reflection.     The  command 
Goes  e'en  beyond  this  word  if  closely  scanned, 

And  it  is  ominous  and  positive. 

"For  I  will  repay."     And  all  His  sons  that  live 
Should  harken  to  this  warning,  stern  and  grand. 

Think  of  thy  mother,  sister,  wife,  with  child, 
To  whom  the  impress  of  this  day  descends; 

Think  of  proclivities  so  fierce  and  wild 
For  which  no  afterthought  can  make  amends; 

Think  of  the  vengeance,  all  unreconciled, 
That  God  on  thine  for  generations  sends. 

I  see  a  people  struggling  ever  on 

'Midst  all  the  trials  of  a  strict  regime; 

Struggling  with  hope  and  confidence  sublime. 
Their  long-time  shackles,  it  is  true,  are  gone, 
But  in  their  hands,  and  in  their  hands  alone, 

(Soiled,  mayhap,  with  the  muck  and  grime 

Of  toil)  their  fate  for  this  and  future  time 
Is  solely  placed.     And  in  this  mighty  struggle  I'm 

Disposed  to  grant  them  just  as  much  acclaim 
As  granted  others,  likely  better  fit 

And  entering  fuller-handed  in  the  game. 
Room  for  the  colored  brother!     Lots  of  it! 

And  wholesome  air  to  breathe; — the  very  same 
That  we  have.    Give  him  hope  and  wealth  and  fame. 


187 


I  see  a  new-built  ship  slide  from  her  berth, 

And  dip  into  the  waters  of  the  bay. 
I  see,  upon  her  masts  a  proud  array 
Of  bunting ;  and  there,  grandly  waving  forth 
The  Stars  and  Stripes.    Another,  emblem  of  its  birth, 

Is  just  a  little  somber,  yet  'tis  gay — 

A  lissome  flag  with  which  the  breezes  play — 
With  Star  that's  Black; — proclaiming  to  the  earth 
That  Hope  has  risen  for  this  long-held  race. 

And  on  her  deck  the  officers  and  crew 
Are  ranged,  in  seamen's  garb  and  proper  place, 

As  orderly  as  one  would  ask  to  view, 
And  all  these  sailor-men  are  black  of  face; — 

And  here  I  find  my  prophecy  come  true. 

Oh,  Ship  that  bears  the  freedmen's  flag  a-mast, 

Sail  on  across  the  sea  and  carry  far 

The  word  that's  emblemed  in  thy  glistening  star! 
That  opportunity  has  come  at  last, 
In  place  of  gyves  and  shackles  of  the  past: 

That  to  a  race  of  workers  further  bar 

Shall  not  be  suffered;  and  proclaim  afar 
That  in  all  lands,  and  o'er  the  oceans  vast 

Freedom  shall  reign  for  all  the  sons  of  men; 
And  be  they  white  or  yellow,  black  or  brown, 

The  God  of  Justice  gave  a  message  when 

He  called  them  all  his  children.    Carry  down 
To  future  ages  God's  decree  again. 


188 


MOVING  PICTURES 
ON   THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

T         Oh,  Little  Girl,  in  woman's  plumes  full-fledged, — 
H  Child  of  mine  own  and  child  of  Passion  fell, 

E  Endowed  with  all  the  graces  that  compel 

Willing  devotion, — plighted  oft  and  pledged 
V         By  arrant  son  of  man,  whose  unassuaged, 
A  Inherent  instincts,  lettered  all,  doth  spell 

M  His  ardent  love, — and  slavery  as  well; 

P         Oh,  Little  Girl,  his  birthright  is  engaged 
I          That  he  may  leave  all  else  and  follow  thee, 
R  O'er  hill  and  dale, — to  meet  thine  every  whim! 

E        Hold  forth  the  suppliant  hand  and  bend  the  knee; 
Hang  on  thy  changing  mood,  or  gay  or  grim, — 

Thy  servitor  most  humble  e'er  to  be; — 

How  hath  thou  charmed  this  man,  and  mastered 
him? 

I          Ah,  well,  it  is  an  age-long  story;  and  to  tell 

N  Its  deeper  import  man  should  need  to  know 

The  scheme  of  human  being,  through  and  through, 
A         The  plan  of  his  Creator;  and  'tis  well 

We  know  not  everything;  for  what  befel 
G  Those  in  the  Garden,  when  the  race  was  new, 

A  Who  ate  of  fruit  forbidden,  in  their  view? 

R        Was  't  not  the  curse  of  toil  and  death  and  hell? 
D        And  yet  the  fruit  was  most  alluring,  and  the  Snake 
E  Knew  well  of  human  instincts  when  he  held 

N        In  tempting  reach,  and  urged  them  then  to  take 

The  fruit  of  knowledge.     And  'twas  self-impelled 
That  sin  of  Eve  and  Adam.     For  their  sake 

All  of  their  sons  and  daughters  have  rebelled. 
189 


A  So  Little  Girl,  if  from  the  Tempter  now 

N  You  take  this  luscious  apple,  and  hold  forth 

D  To  Adam, — with  all  the  sweetness  of  the  earth 

And  hopes  of  heaven  combined, — pray  tell  me  how 

H  He  can  refuse  thee,  and  himself  avow 

I  A  Super-man,  above  the  claims  of  birth 

S  And  all  tradition  since  the  new-made  race 

In  Eden  set  example!    Adam  ate; 

F  His  son  eats  also,  following  the  plan 

A  That  Nature  gives,  (or  cursed  or  consecrate) 

L  For  her  chief  handiwork,  her  creature,  man; 

L  Saying  that  in  this  act,  to  procreate 

Is  her  supreme  decree; — and  not  her  ban. 

A  Ah,  Little  Girl,  but  hear  me  not  amiss; 

N  I  said  'tis  Nature's  plan;  but  pray  observe 

0  Plan  for  a  purpose; — plan  that  doth  subserve 

T  The  Law  of  Being,  in  that  age  and  this; 

H  And,  willy-nilly,  what  the  pretext  is, 

E  Not  to  be  trifled  with;  and  when  you  swerve 

R  From  Nature's  fruitful  law,  and  only  serve 

Your  pleasure  for  the  passing  hour  amiss, 

C  You  help  to  bring  another  curse,  more  dire 

U  Than  that  upon  our  parents,  fall'n  from  grace, — 

R  Than  that  which  brought  the  stern  Creator's  ire, 

S  With  maledictions  on  the  coming  race. 

E  This  means  Extinction; — not  a  threat  of  fire. 


190 


A         For,  Little  Girl,  you  have  a  part  to  play 

Along  with  men  and  women,  creatures  all 

P  Of  Nature.     If  they  rise  or  fall, 

A         Survive  or  perish,  it  is  theirs  to  say. 

R         And  shall  this  gift  be  lightly  thrown  away? 

T  Life,  with  its  hopes  and  purposes,  and  all,— 

The  bauble  of  a  moment's  hasty  call, — 

T         Discarded  plaything  of  a  child  so  gay? 

0  Ah,  Little  Girl,  a  moment  stop  and  think! 

You  are  but  one; — if  all  of  woman-kind 
P         Were  like  to  you,  and  all  the  men  would  drink 
L  The  cup  of  wanton  pleasure  that  you  give, 

A         The  race  would  soon  be  hovering  on  the  brink 
Y  Of  sheer  destruction.     Shall  it  die, — or  live? 

A         But  some  icere  born  for  mothers,  some  were  not; 

I  think  I  hear  the  petulant  retort; 
R  And  some  for  serious  things,  and  some  for  sport 

1  Mayhap;  and  for  the  concubine,  I  wot, 
S         Some  valued  service  consecrates  the  lot, 
K  By  reasoning  of  this  easy-going  sort, 

Y  And  makes  it  all  conveniently  comport 

With  Nature's  plan.     And  yet  I  like  it  not. 
G         For  Nature  makes  her  creatures  fruitful;  then 
A  Determines  the  survival  for  her  use 

M  And  leaves  no  trifling  option  open  when 

E         Her  precious  gifts  are  squandered  by  abuse. 

'Twere  better  far  to  say  her  gifts  to  men 
Are  not  for  them  to  frivol  or  refuse. 


191 


A        And  if  she  place  on  some  the  hapless  seal 

Of  barrenness,  perchance  it  is  her  sign 
J  That,  at  a  station  just  adown  the  line 

U        Her  gift  was  scorned;  and  thus  doth  she  reveal 
D        Her  mandate,  signed  and  shut;  and  no  appeal 
G  Shall  mitigation  give  from  her  design; — 

M  The  punishment's  conclusive  and  condign: 

E         Weighed  in  the  balance,  and  found  wanting;  thine 
N  The  end  appointed  for  this  rank  offense. 

T        And  no  contrition  serves, — no  faith  can  give 

For  thee  a  smug,  vicarious  pretence. 
Thine  executioner  is  sure  and  positive; — 

He  is  thyself;  and  for  thy  untoward  vice 
The  line  that  waited  on  thee  shall  not  live. 

A        So,  Little  Girl,  if  barrenness  thy  claim, 

Tis  not  a  license  given  thee  by  Fate 
S  For  pleasant  dalliance.    Through  the  gate 

A        Thou  may'st  be  passing,  for  another's  blame, 
D        To  such  foredoomed  extinction.     If  it  came 

Through  thy  misdeeds,  'twere  sad  enough;  but 
P  wait,— 

A         Not  jeering  at  thy  sister's  doleful  strait; 
R        Nor  ey'n  pretending  'tis  a  merry  game; — 
A  Nor  seek  to  gather  others  in  thy  train, 

D        And  swell  the  ribald  throng.     But  bow  thy  head, 
E  My  girl,  in  contrite  spirit,  for  the  vain 

Hilarity's  unseeming;  and  instead 

The  March  in  Saul  were  better  played  again, 

For  those  who  might  have  been,  and  now  are  dead. 


192 


A         Oh,  Little  Spider,  with  thy  filmy  net 

Athwart  the  tree's  outreaching  branches  here, 
S  With  parts  concealed,  and  others  that  appear; — 

P         All  cunningly  devised,  and  neatly  set 
I          To  catch  the  ever- vagrant  roamer;  yet 
D  Not  too  obtrusive;  lest,  or  far  or  near, 

E  The  danger  of  the  trap  should  be  too  clear, 

R         And  warn  the  stranger  it  is  made  to  get; — 
Oh,  little  huntress,  crouching  in  thy  den, 

To  satisfy  thy  appetite  and  greed, 
And  sally  forth  upon  the  victim  when 

His  wings  are  snarled;  and  then  in  eager  speed 
Enwind  him  more  and  more,  and  wind  again, 
And  at  thy  pleasant  leisure  do  the  deed; 

A         Oh,  Crafty  Trapper,  ever  is  thy  skill 

N  Too  subtle  for  the  roaming  gnat  or  fly, 

D  And  for  the  beetle,  swiftly  shooting  by, 

Or  even  for  the  sluggish  worm  that  still 
A         Wiggles  in  hopeless  bondage  at  thy  lure. 

For  all  are  subject  to  thy  scheming  will, 
F         And  all  thy  studied  torture  must  endure. 
L  And  e'en  the  mate  that  seeks  thee  thou  shalt  kill, 

Y        After  the  nuptials  only, — to  make  sure. 


193 


A  Oh,  Plotting  Female,  of  the  demon-kind, 

How  fares  it  that  thy  gossamer  device, — 
F  So  infamous,  so  deadly  and  so  nice, — 

E  Withstands  the  winds  that  blow  where  e'er  inclined,- 

M  The  winds  of  heaven,  just  but  ever  blind 
A  To  thy  misdeeds?    And  can  it  be  that  vice 

L  Must  always  stay,  to  take  its  wonted  price? 

E  And  hold  we  still  that  Providence  is  kind? 

Oh,  small  exemplar  of  the  Devil's  hold 
D  Upon  the  hapless  human-kind  afield, 

E  His  luring  traps  unrecognized,  untold; — 
V  The  pleasure  only,  not  the  pain,  revealed; — 

I  Why  is  it  that  his  schemes,  so  sly,  so  bold, 
L  Are  not  by  Heaven  sundered,  shut  and  sealed? 


A        Oh,  Motherhood!    And  is  it  just  a  bane, — 

Part  of  the  primal  curse,  with  toil  and  death, 
M  Sent  as  a  penalty?    And  doth  the  breath 

0        Of  new-born  babe  wail  out  the  woe  and  pain 
T        Of  punishment,  inflicted  once  again, 
H  To  satisfy  an  angry  God?     So  saith 

E  The  preacher,  mayhap;  sadly  blinded  with 

R         Too  close  a  scrutiny  of  myth  inane, 

And  book  and  text  construed  with  thought  severe, 

To  find  some  pretext  for  his  endless  hell. 
And  heaven  is  far  away,  and  hell  right  here 
If  all  be  true  we  hear  the  preacher  tell. 
But  Nature  makes  both  pain  and  joy  appear;— 
And  Nature  knoweth  her  own  purpose  well. 


194 


A         And  she  that  holds  the  right  of  motherhood, 

And  prizes  not  the  blessing,  though  disguised 
L  With  suffering  and  constraint,  and  penalized, 

A         Mayhap,  with  endless  care  and  toil,  hath  understood 
D        But  ill  her  mission;  knowing  not  the  good 
Y  Outweighs  the  travail  and  the  pain.     Unprized 

God's  gift  most  precious;  and  unrecognized 
Her  debt  to  Nature.     Think  you,  then,  she  could 
Allay  the  lingering  qualm  by  act  so  base 

As  taking  to  her  arms  a  fawning  beast, — 
A  little  dog,  let's  say, — and  in  the  place 

Of  Baby,  hold  it  to  her  breast, 
And  call  this  Mother-love,  by  act  of  grace, 
And  satisfy  her  being's  first  request? 


H        A  lady  with  her  little  dog  in  arms! 

E  (And  Solomon,  in  most  exalted  hour, 

R        Was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these!)    Our 

Deference  to  her!  We  proclaim  her  charms, 
D  And  tip  the  hat,  and  bow;  for  sure  it  harms 
0  None  to  defer  somewhat  to  wealth  and  power! 

G  But  do  you  know? — There  now;  no  gossip!  Bower 

So  ornate  and  so  sacred,  nothing  harms! 
A  husband?     Well, — I  think  so; — yes — somewhere, 

In  fond  retirement  of  his  own  device! 
(Such  gorgeous  creatures  cannot  live  on  air.) 

And,  do  you  know,  a  husband's  really  nice, 
(If  he  be  nice,)  to  make  a  handsome  pair, 

And  pay  the  bills; — and  sometimes  give  advice? 


196 


S  A  Gorgeous  Creature,  in  her  limousine! 

0  With  all  that  luxury  and  wealth  can  give, 
C  And  living  as  the  rich  alone  can  live, 

1  And  free  to  go,  (whatever  that  may  mean; — 
E  The  easy  import  you  can  catch  between 

T  My  random  words,)  as  she  elects;  and  give 

Y  Her  time  to  pomp  and  show.     I'm  positive 

In  high  society  she  is  the  Queen. 

Q  And  of  what  service  to  herself  and  kind? 
U  You  ask.     It  is  a  useless  question,  quite. 

E  Of  all  the  foibles  that  possess  her  mind, 
E  That  is  the  very  slightest  to  invite 

N  Her  fond  attention,  or  her  life  to  bind 

In  narrow  groove.    She's  just  a  pretty  sprite! 

A        And  hath  the  Maker  use  for  such  fine  birds, 

To  flit  about  the  world,  and  sing  and  dance, 
F  And  preen  their  plumage?    Yes,  by  happy  chance, 

I          He  hath, — for  birds.    But  can  his  solemn  words 
N        To  Man  be  thus  construed?    And  how  accords 
E  Such  life  with  earnest  aim  He  doth  advance 

For  human  being?    How  shall  it  enhance 
B         The  sum  of  all?    Alas!  it  but  affords 
I          Another  instance  of  a  life  gone  wrong, 
R  And  flung  in  face  of  Giver.     Tis  defeat 

D        Of  purposes  benign; — a  dance  and  song, 

When  labor  is  commanded  to  complete 
The  beauteous  plan  He  gave  to  help  along 

The  mighty  Structure  for  the  Mercy  Seat. 


196 


A         And  will  the  Giver  treasure  such  as  this, 

Tendered  as  service  mete  for  beings  here; — 
G  Brought  to  his  altar  with  a  trifling  leer? 

A         And,  think  you,  there's  reserved  a  state  of  bliss 
R        For  those  in  pandered  idling,  not  of  his 
M  Commanding?     Would  it  not,  instead,  appear, 

E  For  earnest  mission  a  return  so  queer 

N        Demands  both  like  and  equal  offices? 
T         Ah,  here's  a  garment  made  of  wondrous  cloth, 

With  laces,  flowers  and  jewels  set  thereon, — 

A  thing  so  beautiful  and  useless  both, 

Yet  out  of  fashion,  and  completely  gone 

For  service  in  the  after-life,  forsooth; — 

'Twere  better  laid  away,  as  food  for  moth 

Of  all  eternity  to  feed  upon. 


C        How  of  the  Man,  Ihou  caviler?     I  hear 

0  In  querulous  complaint  against  this  strain 
M  Of  evil  conduct,  charged  and  charged  again, 
P        Against  the  Female  of  the  species.     Dear 

A         And  mischievous  they  are,  it  would  appear, 

N  Therefore  more  deadly.    And,  my  friend,  'tis  plain 

1  That  courtesy's  fair  sequence  in  this  train 

0         Should  grant  the  woman  first.     The  man  is  near 
N        You  may  be  sure;  and  in  our  modern  way, 
S  He  comes  full  soon; — but  generally  behind. 

And  so,  in  war,  in  peace,  in  work,  in  play, 

In  conquests  of  the  heart  and  soul  and  mind, 
They  are  together,  following  the  way 

That  Nature  points  for  all  of  human  kind. 


197 


A        And  if  a  frailty  lies  in  one  of  these, 

Shall  we  not  look  to  find  it  in  the  mate? 
L  Where's  the  philosopher  to  estimate 

I          The  difference  in  their  fault ;  or  set  at  ease 
T        The  quibble  of  so  many,  (hard  to  please,) 
T  Of  who's  the  greater  sinner?    Let  them  prate 

L  And  put  the  matter,  proof  and  predicate, 

E        But  it  shall  ne'er  be  settled.     Cavilers  like  these 

Are  hard  to  reconcile.     I  mind  the  flow 
F  Of  old  Castilian  humor:     "Man  is  Fire: 

I          "And  Woman  (fine  and  fluffy  creature),  Tow: 
R  "The  Devil,  (coming  at  their  fond  desire, 

E         In  stertorous  breath)  goes  whiff, — and  gives  a  blow!" 
(The  Devil  is  a  friend  I  oft  admire.) 

A        And,  of  the  man  who  owns  the  limousine, 

N  And  finds  the  Gorgeous  Creature  and  her  pet, 

D  And  the  free  manners  of  her  social  set 

Much  to  his  liking,  (haply  in  between 
T        Matters  of  greater  interest):    What  is  seen 
H  In  him  to  give  us  better  thought?    Or  yet 

E  A  higher  estimate,  in  gross  or  net, 

Upon  his  value  to  the  race,  I  ween? 
M        For  his  chief  purpose  is  to  scatter  gold, 
A  That  others  digged  and  earned,  and  to  maintain 

N        For  gaping  throng  of  strangers  to  behold, 
A  pomp  and  circumstance  as  idly  vain 

As  hers.    The  dog,  her  pet,  is  all  he  hath  to  hold; — 
His  name,  his  line  aborted; — and  what  gain? 


198 


A         I  see  a  youth,  just  stepping  on  the  sill 

Of  Manhood.     O'er  the  way  is  grandly  placed 
Y  A  word,  let's  hope,  shall  never  be  erased, 

0         The  legend  Opportunity.     With  will 
U         And  courage  all  his  part  to  fill, 
T  The  future  of  this  Lad's  already  traced; 

H  And,  let  us  hope,  'twill  never  be  disgraced 

By  act  unworthy  of  this  day.     And  still 
S  I  see  beside  the  road,  on  either  hand, 

T         In  beauteous  foliage,  and  full  well  disguised, 
E  A  million  cobwebs,  and  each  filmy  band 

P         A  trap  for  him,  full  cunningly  devised, 
S  For  his  destruction.     Can  he  move  and  stand 

'Mongst  fruit  and  flowers — the  cobwebs  recognized? 
F  Find  pleasant  rest,  when  worn  by  travel  long, 

0  And  in  his  hours  of  pleasure  and  of  ease, 
R  Enjoy  the  beauty  only,  and  the  song 
T         Of  innocence, — and  be  content  with  these? 
H 

H         I  see  this  youth, — is  he  your  son,  or  mine? 

1  His  face  a-smile,  in  confidence  sublime, 

S  Take  to  the  road,  and  dare  the  test  of  time; — 

Dare  as  the  hero  dares  who  answers  call  divine 
C  To  action ; — with  no  time  to  falter  or  repine, — 
H  And  up  the  hill  of  conquest  he  would  climb. 

A  Now  can'st  thou  say,  in  reason  or  in  rhyme, 

N        Why  he  should  not  attain  his  goal,  and  shine 
C  As  conqueror,  upon  its  lofty  crown? 

E        And  yet,  this  son  of  yours  or  mine,  my  friend, 
Hath  many  chances  now  to  him  unknown. 
For,  at  beginning,  who  foresees  the  end? 

Life  tells  her  tale  in  chapters;  and  not  shown 
Too  soon  the  fate  the  Author  minds  to  send. 
199 


N  This  youth  of  ours  is  born  to  good  estate, 

A  With  circumstance  bespoken  in  his  cause, 

T  And  every  needful  aid  around  him  draws 

U  For  his  achievement.     Faithful  friends  await 

R  To  help  him  on,  and  keep  him  in  the  straight 

E  And  hobbled  path  of  virtue.     Here  let's  pause 

To  say  that  he  is  Nature's  child,  by  laws 

S  Immutable  and  urgent; — just  as  great 

As  ties  of  kin,  religion,  duty; — all 
C  The  moral  virtues; — bring  them  all,  enlist 

H  In  common  cause  to  master  or  forestall 
I  The  pull  of  Nature.     If  the  boy  resist 

L  That  pull  by  all  these  aids,  then  we  may  call 
D  Him  hero,  and  his  name  shall  head  the  list. 

N        For  Nature  hath  her  way  throughout  the  earth, 
A  With  beast  and  bird  and  reptile;  fish  and  all 

T  Her  creatures  animate.     To  Nature's  call 

U        The  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers  respond,  in  birth 
R        From  seed  all  fertilized;  and  prove  their  worth 
E  By  yielding  seed  again.    Or  great  or  small 

In  Nature's  plenteous  lap  they  fall, 
S         And  pay  her  tribute.     Thus  she  holdeth  forth 

From  age  to  age,  and  life  perpetuate 
C  Is  granted  in  return  for  service  done: 

A        And  every  kind  and  species  animate 
L  Is  charged  with  its  own  duty, — one  by  one, — 

L         To  save  its  own; — to  serve  the  ranks  that  wait 

A-down  the  centuries,  from  sire  to  son. 


200 


S        And  Nature  calls  for  tribute  when  'tis  due; — 
E  Not  at  convenience  of  the  life  in  bond; — 

R  Not  leaving  option  open,  to  respond 

V         Or  send  regrets;  but,  preparation  through, 
I          And  full  equipped; — why,  that's  the  thing  to  do: 
C  Pay  tribute:     And  the  urge  is  all  around 

E  In  Nature's  realm;— in  sea  and  air  and  ground! 

Pay  tribute:     high  and  low  and  through  and  through! 
Think  you,  my  friend,  our  boy  doth  hear  this  call? 
Oh,  yes; — of  course; — but  then  the  boy  must  wait; 
There's  yet  four  years  of  college; — after  all 

The  discipline  is  good;  he'll  get  his  gait 
When  fitted  well  for  life;  there's  Virtue's  wall — 
But,  friend,  will  Nature  halt  or  hesitate? 

0  My  Christian  friend,  you  know  just  what  we  do; 
U  I  shut  my  eyes  and  fondly  trust  to  fate; 

R  You  shut  your  eyes  and  fondly  pray  and  prate; 

And  both  are  hypocrites!     In  heart  we  two 

B  Are  hoping  that  the  boy  will  struggle  through, 
L  And  with  his  instincts  just  procrastinate; — 

E  Keep  out  of  trouble,  and  at  any  rate 

S  Avoid  a  scandal;  be  discreet;  from  view 

S  Of  family  and  friends  keep  closely  hid 

1  His  little  peccadilloes,  if  they  come; 

N  And  not  get  tangled  with  some  Bowery  kid, 

G         And  after  marriage  bring  the  hussy  home. 

(That  heinous  sin  we  strictly  now  forbid.) — 
And  thus  we  turn  our  hero  out  to  roam. 


201 


W        If  he  gets  through  his  college  course  quite  free, 
E  We  are  devoutly  thankful,  and  we  say 

L  He's  had  his  trial,  and  has  learned  the  way 

L         To  dodge  such  mischief;  and  we  straight  agree 

He  knows  a  thing  or  two;  and  can  be  trusted  free 
S  To  play  the  game  as  other  dodgers  play, 

T  And  hold  Dan  Cupid  further  still  at  bay, 

A        Until  his  Mother  and  his  Dad  agree 
R        It's  time  to  marry.    This  depends,  of  course, 
T  On  business  or  profession.    Further  years 

E        For  this,  and  further  still  to  gain  a  source 
D  Of  income; — for  this  youngster,  it  appears, 

Must  furnish  home  of  elegance, — no  worse 

Than  that  She  lives  in.    Thus  the  sequel  nears. 

A  Oh,  Superficial  Planners  of  the  day! 

Oh,  Purblind  Parents,  thinking  you  can  bend 
C  The  laws  of  Nature  to  conserve  your  end, 

A  And  sweep  her  sovereign  edicts  all  away, 

R  To  satisfy  your  fond  ambition!    Stay 
E  To  see  the  evil  that  your  plans  portend; — 

F  The  punishment  that  Nature's  wont  to  send 

U  In  retribution;  for  there  blocks  the  way 
L  Ten  thousand  chances  of  a  sore  defeat 

At  some  unguarded  angle.    Soon  or  late 
P  The  boy  may  break  from  such  an  indiscreet 

L  And  irksome  tutelage;  and  then  your  great 
A  Air-castle  tumbles.    Should  you  ev'n  complete — 

N  Unhappiness,  divorce  and  wreck  await. 


202 


A         I  saw  your  daughter,  Madam,  on  the  street. 

A  winsome  girl  indeed,  and  I  would  say 
F  Favors  her  father  in  a  certain  way, 

I          With  all  her  mother's  graces;  and  complete 
N        In  every  detail  was  her  costume; — mete 
E  For  ball-room,  or  for  other  gorgeous-gay 

Society  affair; — that  is,  I  mean  to  say, — 
C         She  looked  most  grandly  elegant  and  sweet! 
R        (I  am  so  awkward  in  descriptive  phrase 
E  Of  woman's  dress  and  finery  and  style!) 

A         A  simple  walking  costume? — yes;  the  praise 
T  Is  due  her  mother  I  am  sure!     Her  smile 

U        Was  so  bewitching!     Her  unconscious  ways 
R  Disclosed  her  innocence!     No  thought  of  guile 

E         Belongs  to  her  in  these  most  guileful  days; — 

With  others  on  the  street  I  gazed  a  while. 

A         Her  bodice,  I  am  certain,  was  cut  square, 

And  low;— just  reasonably,  you  know,  and  fine 
C  To  show  a  bust  with  grace  in  every  line, 

0  So  far  as  it  was  shown,  for  with  a  wondrous  care 
Y         The  line  was  drawn; — yes,  certainly, — just  there! 

A  graceful  compromise,  as  I  opine 
G  Between  your  stricter  notions,  ma'am,  and  mine; 

1  Not  quite  so  low,  perhaps,  as  she  would  dare. 
R         There  must  be  something  undisclosed,  I  know 
L  To  whet  the  fancy,  else  no  witching  charm 

Invests  the  draperies  that  coyly  flow 

Against  the  tempting  bust  or  leg  or  arm. 

Her  hose,  I'm  sure,  could  little  farther  go; — 
Pink  and  diaphanous, — transparent, — warm. 


203 


A  I  saw  your  daughter,  Madam,  at  the  show. 
It  was  a  vaudeville; — the  common  mix 
F  Of  movies,  dancing,  music,  circus  tricks 

E  And  so  forth.     I  was  seated  in  the  row 

T  Assigned  to  men  of  sober  years  who  grow 
C  But  little  hair  a-top;  and  five  or  six 

H  Rows  back,  as  I  remember — if  I  fix 

I  The  place  aright,  the  two  were  there,  you  know; — 

N  She  and  my  son.    Oh,  well,  'twas  good  enough; — 
G  The  same  old  story; — something  pretty  raw 

Worked  in  between  the  music,  and  the  stuff 
S  That  lovers  want;  and  ever  there  we  saw 

H  The  villain  still  pursuing, — coarse  and  rough — 

0  Pursuing  what?     The  Maiden?     Yes;  oh,  pshaw! 

w 

T  I  saw  the  pair  anon  down  in  the  grill, 

H  In  flush  of  light  and  glare  of  grand  array; 

R  And  they  were  there  the  gayest  of  the  gay. 

1  To  see  the  throng  disport  in  merry  mill 

L  Would  charm  the  gloom  of  anchorite,  and  fill 

L  His  head  with  antics.     Feasting  and  the  play 

I  Of  all  the  senses  in  one  grand  array; — 

N  Women,  wine  and  song,  as  suits  the  will 

G  Of  those  already  surfeited,  who  seek 

To  add  to  surfeit  yet  another  thrill! 

S  And  girls  with  painted  lips  and  painted  cheek 
C  Were  mingling  in  the  throng  at  will, 

E  With  men  of  painted  eyes  and  painted  beak, 
N  The  garish  painted  programme  to  fulfill. 

E 


204 


A         I  saw  your  daughter,  Madam,  much  enthused; — 
N  My  son,  I  thought,  was  just  a  bit  blase; 

D  For,  though  at  times  affecting  to  be  gay, 

His  gayety  seemed  forced; — as  if  'twere  used 
A        To  stronger  spice  than  this,  and  felt  abused 

At  so  much  fol-de-rol  for  merest  play. 
G  And  then  I  thought  perhaps  in  other  way 

H        His  fervor  had  been  sated.     If  refused 

0  By  her  beside  him  in  this  merry  mock 

S  Why  there  are  others,  surely,  that  invite 

T         To  amplest  satisfaction; — and  that  stock 

Is  never  far  to  seek  for  one  who's  quite 
In  tune  for  revel.     Now  let's  stop  the  clock 

For  our  fell  ghost  has  risen, — wan  and  white. 

A        You  know  we  chuckled  when  we  found  our  boy 

Had  dodged  the  mischief  of  the  plotting  crew; 
T  And  then  concluded  that  the  lad  would  do 

H        To  face  the  world,  and  ever  be  our  joy 

1  In  strict  propriety.     But  morals  cloy 

N  With  over-worked  command.    Remember,  too, — 

G  And  never  let  this  fact  escape  your  view, — 

That  Nature  pulls  the  other  way:     Ahoy! 
0         And  heave,  ho!    And  the  pull  she  doth  engage 
R  Warps  our  good  ship  leeward,  far  away, 

From  course  we're  steering,  and  from  anchorage 
T  That  we  selected.     Say  to  Nature,  Nay, 

W       Thy  course  is  wrong;  then  vainly  curb  thy  rage! 
0  This  "thing  or  two"  the  boy  hath  learned  at  play. 


205 


A        And  if  I  thought  the  youngster  somewhat  cold, 

When  merrily  was  running  all  the  play, 
M  And  she  beside  him  was  so  very  gay, 

I          Perchance  the  reason  now  is  plainly  told, 
G        And  any  further  moral  to  unfold 
H  Were  quite  superfluous;  but  still  we  may 

T  Hold  just  a  little  moment  more  to  say 

Y        The  trick  of  female  charms  so  very  bold 

We  also  noted,  is  the  female  urge 
P         Prompted  by  Nature,  to  allure  the  coy, 
U  Elusive  lover  running  still  at  large; — 

L        And  all  the  scenes  of  revelry  and  joy; — 
L  And  song  and  dance  and  story,  charge  on  charge, 

Are  Nature  pulling  at  the  girl  and  boy. 

W       But,  this,  our  boy  who  "knows  a  thing  or  two," 
H  Finds  just  a  mere  diversion,  mainly  meant 

Y  To  keep  his  fancy  flowing;  his  intent 

Is  marriage  sometime, — yes,  of  course;  but  who 
H        Wants  marriage,  with  the  splurge  it  means  in  view, 
E  Unless  he  has  the  cash?     If  this  be  sent 

Together  with  the  girl,  it's  easy  spent 
H        And  he  is  ready  both  to  dare  and  do. 
A        But,  for  your  daughter,  Madam,  who,  he  knows, 
L  Hath  not  the  wherewithal,  it's  not  so  clear. 

T        He  couldn't  earn  enough  to  buy  her  clothes, — 
S  Say  nothing  of  the  other  things,  so  dear, 

So  necessary  for  herself  and  those 

She  loves; — and  breach-of -promise  suits  are  queer! 


A         I  see  a  youth  arraigned  for  grave  offense 

Against  the  laws,  made  and  provided  all 
C  To  safeguard  what  we  most  delight  to  call 

R        The  crown  of  womanhood.    We  make  pretense — 
I          Offending  majesty  of  virtue  hence — 
M  Of  guarding  that  which  needs  but  to  install 

I  Its  own  defender.     Better  than  stone  wall 

N        And  military  post  is  Common  Sense. 
A  Here  for  seduction  stands  the  boy  arraigned, 

L         And  he  is  dumb  before  a  grave-faced  throng. 

Guilty?     Oh,  what  odds  if  only  end  attained 
Is  virtue  s  vindication?     And  how  long 

Must  virtue  wait?     The  thing  is  all  explained 
If  we  but  sing  to-day  the  same  old  song. 

The  boys  at  fault,  of  course;  and  much  is  gained ;- 
Let  all  seducers  go  where  they  belong. 

K  But  not  so  fast,  oh,  Outraged  Justice,  hold 

N  Thy  withering  hand  a  moment;  let  us  see 

0  Wherein  the  measure  of  his  guilt  may  be 

T  Greater  than  hers.    This  boy's  not  worldly-wise,  I'm 

T  told; 

Y  While  she  is  older,  and  a  trifle  bold. 

Who  did  the  tempting  here?     Was't  he  or  she? 
P  Let's  view  the  matter  calmly  and  agree 

R  The  fault  was  hers,  the  greater,  many  fold. 

0  And  such  the  product  of  our  hectic  life, 
B  With  everything  to  stimulate  the  young 

L  And  surging  passions!    And  the  cause  of  strife 
E  May  seem  at  last  to  equally  belong 

M  To  false  conditions  and  to  Nature,  rife 

For  what  she  claims; — albeit  right  or  wrong. 

207 


A  But  let  the  case  proceed.    I'm  fain  to  say 

Justice  is  justice,  and  the  courts  must  give 
S  Protection.    Let  the  wayward  learn  to  live 

0  Within  the  law,  for  law  must  have  its  way 
R  Or  all  our  safeguards  tumble  in  a  day; — 

E  Thus  pleads  the  prosecutor,  who  must  strive 

And  in  the  law's  complexities  contrive 

D  To  bring  conviction; — gaining  thus  his  pay. 

1  But  still,  my  legal  friend,  a  human  life 
L  Hangs  in  the  balance,  and  this  boy  consigned 
E                To  prison  means  his  end;  and  rope  or  knife 
M  Might  bring  a  better.    Ere  the  shackles  bind 

M  Let's  bring  to  view  the  stricken  man  and  wife, 

A  His  parents; — Keep  their  punishment  in  mind. 

T  But  let  the  case  proceed,  may't  please  the  Court, 

H  For  we  have  much  to  do  to  vindicate 

E  This  much  abused  young  woman.    Let  me  state 

It  is  my  solemn  duty;  and  retort 

C  That  others'  grief,  or  any  other  sort 

0  Of  plea  for  sympathy  cannot  abate 

N  The  Court's  prerogative.    And  now  the  great 

F  Contention's  on;  it  is  a  public  sport; — 

L  The  room  is  filled  with  eager  auditors; — 

1  Women  and  men,  and  girls,  if  they're  allowed; 
C  And  prurient  details  that  the  soul  abhors 

T  Are  brought  before  the  evil-minded  crowd; 

And  life  of  culprit  and  progenitors 

0  Laid  bare.    This  makes  the  prying  lawyers  proud. 

N 


208 


A         And  prurient  Press  takes  up  the  eager  chase, 

And  spreads  before  its  readers,  old  and  young, 
B  Delicious  morsels,  (rolled  beneath  the  tongue) 

A         Of  all  salacious  details, — every  base 
N        And  scand'lous  thing  developed  in  the  case, 
Q  And  such  insinuations  slily  flung; — 

U  As  any  snake  that  ever  hissed  and  stung 

E         Might  claim  for  fellow.     Readers  in  their  place 
T  Of  fond  security,  and  smug  and  sure 

Within  their  sanctity,  may  at  their  will 

Revel  in  banquet  spread  of  this  impure 
Turkey,  with  trimmings,  and  their  stomachs  fill, 

As  they  may  cram  or  relish  or  endure. 
And  this,  for  most,  completely  fills  the  bill. 

E  And  if  the  pabulum  the  press  purveys 

N  Be  somewhat  heavy,  or  too  quickly  gorged, 

T  The  theme's  inviting,  and  may  be  enlarged 

I  To  quantum  suf.  in  movies,  books  and  plays 

C  And  recreation  for  both  nights  and  days 

I  Supplied  ad  lib.     The  prices  charged 

N  Within  the  reach  of  all;  and  thus  is  urged 

G  The  poison-potion  in  a  million  ways; — 

Quick  and  most  pungent,  if  one  chooses  so, 

T  Or  long  drawn  out  in  ravished  anguish,  still; — 
H  Three  Weeks  or  more,  if  one  should  choose  to  go 

E  So  far  to  reach  erotic  end,  and  fill 
M  With  many  thrills  the  writer  cares  to  throw 

E  Into  the  rotten  story.    Thus  they  flow. 


209 


F        Oh,  age  lascivious,  oh,  groveling  throng, 

E  That  find  men's  evil  conduct  thy  delight, 

A  And  feast  upon  it  morning,  noon  and  night, 

S         And  prop  it  up,  thy  other  food  among, 

T        And  taste  another  flavor  that  is  sprung 

From  crime  and  scandal, — If  I  read  aright 
The  sign  of  this  thy  morbid  appetite, 
W       The  fruits  are  yours,  the  faults  to  you  belong. 
A  Thus  have  they  gone,  the  peoples  in  decay 

R        Who  passed  and  are  not,  save  in  monument 
N  They  left, — forbidding,  vast  and  grey, — 

I          To  show  the  world  perchance  which  road  they  went; — 
N  For  it  was  down  this  broadening  Great  White 

G  Way;- 

Their  one-time  greatness  now  forever  spent. 

A  I  see  a  mad,  amusement-seeking  race, 

In  hectic  fever  pressing  to  its  goal, 
K  And  grasping  pleasures,  all  of  sense,  not  soul. 

I  I  see  a  Clown  installed  in  market  place 

N  Outmidasing  old  Midas  by  the  grace 
G  Of  all  who  hang  upon  his  antics,  pay  his  toll, 

And  then  in  mighty  spasms  sway  and  roll. 

C  This  lofty  mummer  makes  the  fool's  grimace; 
R  And  holds  his  servitors  with  easy  rein. 

0  And  if  the  one  they  serve  by  right  appears 
W  Their  beau-ideal  of  life,  why  then  it's  plain 

N  They  are  a  race  of  mummers,  and  the  shears 
E  Are  mine:  and  I,  the  Timid  Barber,  whisper  plain: 

D  This  vaunted  King  of  yours  hath  Ass's  ears. 


210 


R        Thou  flaunting  beauty  of  the  vaudeville, 

E  Displayer  of  thy  charms  in  dress  undress, 

T  Purveying  to  the  throng  thy  loveliness; — 

A        A  word  with  thee  would  do  but  little  ill, 

I         Or  little  good,  because  thy  wont  is  will 

L  To  lead  this  hectic  life.     But  couldst  thou  guess 

The  end  impending,  it  would  suit  thee  less. 
T         Down  in  the  slums  are  led  the  lives  that  kill! 
R  A  girl  like  thee  I  saw  the  other  day,— 

A  Fashioned  as  fine,  and  once  as  debonair; — 

D  Who  danced  and  sang  adown  this  broad  highway; 

E        But  she  is  in  a  little  crib  down  there, 

And  selling  to  all  comers, — if  they  pay ; 
But  retail,  mind  you, — each  his  single  share. 

A        Thou,  flaunting  beauty  of  the  higher  grade, 

N  Doth  hold  the  wholesale  market  for  a  while, 

D  Selling  thy  body,  with  thy  song  and  smile, 

To  please  the  leering  crowd;  and  in  the  trade 
W       A  weekly  stipend,  looming  large,  is  made 
H  For  shameless  show  and  antics  that  beguile, 

0  And  cause  the  prurient  thought  and  smirk  and 

L  smile. 

E  There's  all  the  difference,  my  buxom  maid. 
S  Plain  language  this;  and  such  I  apprehend 
A  You  seldom  hear  from  those  who  keep  the  pace, 

L         And  travel  with  thy  dalliance.     Not  a  friend 
E  Would  dare  or  care  to  utter  in  thy  face 

A  hint  of  such  a  shame  or  such  an  end 
Or  say  thy  glory,  girl,  is  thy  disgrace! 


211 


A        Whence  comes  this  modern  craze  for  nakedness? 

Is  here  produced  in  life  the  artist's  dream, — 
B  Art  for  Art's  sake — portrayed,  not  as  they  seem, 

A  But  as  they  are,  and  seeking  to  express 
R  The  chosen  forms  of  human  loveliness, 
E  All  in  the  nude?  Then  has  the  artist's  scheme 

Been  carried  to  its  logical  extreme, 
I          And  nothing's  left  his  craving  soul  to  guess, — 
D        If  theme  unhackneyed  he  would  fain  disclose, — 
E  But  to  revise  his  theories  entire, 

A        And  paint  his  human  beings  wearing  clothes. 
L  Ah,  then  the  thought  artistic  may  aspire 

To  show  the  things  of  life  he  really  knows, 

And  paint  the  smoke  that  partly  hides  the  fire! 

A        And  still  the  question  stands:  Whence  comes  the  craze? 

For  surely  'tis  not  based  on  bare  ideals; 
D  No  sublimated  standard  e'er  appeals 

I          To  the  chic  maiden  of  these  stylish  days 
C        Or  her  fond  mother.     Regulate  their  ways 
T  By  anything  but  Fashion?    Why  one  feels 

A  Preposterous  upon  the  very  heels 

T  Of  such  a  limping  thought.  The  ayes  and  nays 
0  Are  called  instanter.  Then  it's  Fashion's  word 
R  Decides  the  issue  what  and  when  and  how, 

And  whether  garb  is  charming  or  absurd. 

And  who  is  Fashion,  dearest?    Answer  now, 
Who's  the  dictator?    Has  it  e'er  occurred; — 

Paris?    Her  demi-mondaine?     Well,  I  cowl 


212 


A         But  Autocrat  of  Paris  rules  by  grace 

Of  greater  powers  than  his,  and  if  we  will 
D  The  end  that  he's  appointed  to  fulfill 

U        Looms  large  upon  us;  for  his  reign  hath  place 
M        In  comprehending,  overmastering  grace 
M  That  orders  human  action,  good  or  ill, 

Y  To  work  at  last  its  written,  sovereign  will. 

Change  is  predestined  for  the  human  race, 
K  As  'tis  for  all  creation;  and  this  change 

I          Means  making  over;  and  in  tearing  down 
N  No  less  than  building  up  it  finds  its  range 

G         For  Evolution's  plan,  the  Maker's  own 

For  conservation  of  his  forces  strange 

That  men  engage,  as  yet  but  illy  known. 


T         Afar,  afar,  against  the  northern  mist 

W  I  see  two  mighty  caravans  that  march 

0  Contra- wise;  one  headed  for  the  arch 

Of  rising  sun,  the  other  to  the  west; 
C         And  both  these  columns  seem  in  eager  quest 
A  Of  goal  beyond  horizon  of  their  search. 

R  And  one  doth  bound  and  roll  and  heave  and  lurch 

A         In  great  commotion,  antic-joy  possesst. 
V  The  other  moves  more  surely,  soberly, 

A        As  if  for  earnest  search  their  course  they  wend 
N  And  when  I  look  more  closely  still  I  see 

S         Much  joy  of  quiet  sort  doth  these  attend, 
And  Evolution's  written  large  and  free. 

The  other,  Devolution,  and  The  End. 


213 


T        And  not  alone  in  the  affairs  of  men 

H  Such  mighty  columns  show,  but  all  through  space 

E  The  centra-movements  may  be  seen  apace, 

Building — Destroying.     In  telescopic  ken 
L        Are  misty  spheres  new-born;  and  turn  again, 
A  Are  old  ones  going  out,  their  day  of  grace 

W  Concluded  in  a  blaze;  thus  giving  place 

To  newer  orders.  Evolution's  gain 

Is  Devolution's  loss;  and  thus  is  set 
The  vast  creative  plan  that  carries  on 

The  universe  of  universes.    Yet 
We  fail  so  oft  to  see  the  words  upon 

God's  handiwork  before  us,  signed  and  set 
Too  large  to  read, — until  our  chance  is  gone. 

0        Oh,  age  uncanny,  times  all  out  of  joint! 

0  Tempora,  0  Mores.     Custom's  Law! 
T  The  Senate  knew  this  and  the  Consul  saw! 

E        Yet,  in  an  age  degenerate,  who  could  point, — 
M       What  Prophet  doth  the  Centuries  anoint 
P  And  charge  with  warning  that  can  overawe 

0  A  people  plunging  to  their  fate  below; — 

R        For  pointing  vainly  is  to  disappoint. 
A  Oh  Times,  oh,   Customs!    I  have  shown  ye  all 

The  issues  that  arise  'twixt  Nature's  Law 
0  And  man-made  practice;  and  in  great  and  small 

The  conflict  rages,  and  the  Furies  draw 
M  Their  meshes  for  thy  capture  and  thy  fall; — 

0        The  Senate  knew  this,  and  the  Consul  saw! 
R 
E 
S 

214 


SOME  DAY 

Some  day  your  reminiscent  look 
May  fall  upon  this  little  book, 

And  you'll  recall  an  absent  one. 
Then,  mayhap,  you'll  be  nigh  with  me;- 
To  smile  with  me  and  sigh  with  me; 
To  laugh  with  me  and  cry  with  me — 

When  I  am  gone. 


FINIS 


215 


VB   I  1 808 


4915-U 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


